Near the windowsill where you wept,
While the wood still kept
The stains of reddest tears,
Because, your wrists didn’t agree
With the color of blue
That drained from the sky.
Near the windowsill where you slept,
And I’m still with the memory of a face
Painted by sadness, despite my gladness,
For your betrayal was a kindness upon the Devil’s door.
And, when you laid there, I could only stare,
Only aware that you had died.