Under
the apple tree we sat remote,
plucking lineage from the grass.
Above, the canopy dappled
a white cross upon your cheek,
and I heard an ancient sigh
resonate from your genes.
Demon Lover, how you bewitched
the stones, the moon, the sea.
I am distemper which guilds the sky
with hammer and anvil forged by grief.
My hours are time-soaked threshing floors
spent spinning webs in haunted spaces.
Yours is the patina of an inner scar,
a moonstone dulled by sediment.