“Love never dies a natural death.” — Anais Nin
But it does, my dear, every day:
We sing of the knife in the back,
the lovers’ leap, the drowning in tears,
but never of simple death by exhaustion,
by hardening of the heart, by cancer
of doubt and tumors of disdain
metastasized into malignant loathing,
a heart that beats each day weaker
until you can’t detect the pulse.
A mighty old oak felled by lightning
or by the slow decay of heartwood —
dead is dead is dead.