No love lost

Ours was a Sixteenth C type of love:
hidden bones and buried treasures,

black turtlenecks and luscious wounds.
You were slim, I was quiet; progression

would be swift.

Your bones sharpened, hips like hangers.
My answers shortened, Germanic grunts.

Your withering beauty lost on some
but found by me, my skeletal stunner.

Fuelled by mad dog chasers and three-
card brag, we played it blind.

You dropped like a stone to under five
I floated into silence, we changed doctors;

drifted apart medically.

At some Delhi in 1999 I caught your reflection
in the glistening Rioja; full bodied and happy.

I chose my blended scotch, silently.