Not the soft pink light of dusk,

Or of girlhood.

Not the romantic I used to be.

I grieved for so long back then,

Carried the basket of stones for as long as I could

Before chucking them over the cliffside.

This time I carried nothing, read nothing,

Burned your letters before you wrote them.

I saved myself an era.

You drenched yourself in blood;

I kept my promise and left you

In the basin.

Angel face, devil mind,

Terrible creature, you.

Not terrible enough to tether me,

To loom as large or as long as a kill.

Little lions at play

Until mother calls to feast on the stew.

Terrible, silly, sated, you.