That cruel curl to your lip,
-the edge of your voice-
The rare lack of make-up
Masking your crumpled skin.
Rotting teeth, drowned sinuses,
Stubby thick fingers; crumpled nails:
Fresh blood on ruined wrists.
The wind, she gusts strangely today:
Arguing, as a sign of love,
With familiar strangers, long acquainted.
Memories, foggy or absent, now,
Have dried on cheeks to dusty streams,
Pooling with brackish water.
Madame DeLyte has suffered a grave disappointment - YET AGAIN - and still believes that freedom, beauty, and truth are what's valuable, rather than vulgar cash. He'd add love to that list - but, well, what can he say about love?