His Music Box Courtesan Is A Corpse
Shuts you off whenever he is away
to pine in a pearlescent box in the dark.
Closes the cover. No arias play.
Leaves nothing but his scent and the marks
on your naked prone torso, the limbs beneath
whose ache recedes more each undisturbed day
though a sea aggregates of dripping grief
beneath that threatens to drown if he delays.
Opens you up one day too late to find
his music box courtesan is a corpse.
Immobile blue body he can no longer wind
to satisfy lust or even remorse.
You start to die when you cease to be hurt.
How gently he places your box in the dirt.