by CWK
“It’s me,” she said,
“Me! Don’t you
remember?
Remember the nights
of passion?
The wild life? Highways and high fashion?
Don’t you remember?
Don’t you miss me?
Come now, my old friend, and kiss me.”
“It’s not me,” I
replied,
“Yes you, not me. I
died.”
I saw her lingering
near the portico
and something in me
came alive
which I had long
wished dead.
She wound through the
night,
and the moon shone
bright, quite red.
Her eyes were on
fire
with long latent desire.
The lines in her face were stolid, starker;
her hair was still golden, but somehow darker.
She looked younger
and older.
For my part, I was
wiser and colder.
A moment passed, my
heart beat fast;
a brief glance of
recognition then cast --
but it faded, and we
stood two strangers.
And my life passed to
death in one deep breath,
and I felt forgotten,
safe, absent from danger.
It is you, but not
me.
I am not the person
you knew.
I hardly recognize
that man:
his face young; his
heart faithless:
his eyes haughty, his
ways reckless.
I hate the sight of
him.
That was not me, is
not me, is not who I am.
He departed to Sheol. May he be damned.
“It’s not me,” I
replied,
“Yes you, not me; I
died.”
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