About the Younger Man / Conjugal extinction

Dear Mister Processed Nectar,


Our love was a ritual, like a head placing itself
inside an oven each day. One day, I passed. Another day and
more often, you did.

My forests are now one wild village and they speak the same

language; there's more wind between the trees, and rivers

when we arrive.

For his love is but a perfect cigarette burn; he's taught me to blow
rings and go around them too.