If I Can't Have Love, If I

Hands, Matches, An Ashtray. A Ritual Beautiful And Bitter.

There Is A Sacred, Secret Line In Loving Which Attraction And Even Passion Cannot Cross.

We Thought: We're Poor, We Have Nothing, But When We Started Losing One After The Other So Each Day Became Remembrance Day, We Started Composing Poems About God's Great Generosity And Our Former Riches.

All Has Been Looted, Betrayed, Sold; Black Death's Wing Flashed Ahead.

Call Me A Sinner, Mock Me Maliciously: I Was Your Insomnia, I Was Your Grief.