a missing turn

these dry leaves sighing, lisping with dead lips
one half a conversation never lived--
tell of a love spent on a man who's not
(and never was), and who I can't forgive.

and shall I tie them up in ribbons? Make
a treasure of the pain? a temple to
my folly is more like to be. Stacked neat
and pretty. Steeped in rue. But not for you--

So let them rot. Tied up in lovely bows
Tied like my heart not tasting the decay
but drinking deep the poison that he sold
like goblin fruit, juice dribbling my dismay