I Find That In A Novel I

Piece By Piece, I Fed My Wardrobe To The Night Wind, And Flutteringly, Like A Loved One’s Ashes, The Gray Scraps Were Ferried Off, To Settle Here, There, Exactly Where I Would Never Know, In The Dark Heart Of New York.

Dying Is An Art, Like Everything Else. I Do It Exceptionally Well.

There Is So Much Hurt In This Game Of Searching For A Mate, Of Testing, Trying. And You Realize Suddenly That You Forgot It Was A Game, And Turn Away In Tears.

I Must Get My Soul Back From You; I Am Killing My Flesh Without It.

Widow. The Word Consumes Itself.