It never happened.
We both dreamt it.
You are dead to me
and all your touches
have turned to ash.
There is no more
flesh on these bones
picked clean by
the love-birds of prey.
Only strangers now
that glance away
or grow white
at certain footfalls.
Ghosts and shades
of passionless hope,
we dare not look
at one another.
It is done
and there will be
no more lies, see.
This never happened.