Oh, my lover, who killed dearest brother.
I have so much to say to you.
You are a masterpiece; a fatal one,
the way your suave lips curve downward,
into a displeased frown, as if you
Hadn’t known. Maybe you didn’t,
but your little shows are so sick, yet
I admire them. Tell me, says I,
where has Alexander gone?
Sleep walking he did not, not down
the corridor. Not out the door.
Your skin prickles, your hands clammy,
and I know what you’ve done. But
I still play dumb, and I still ask you,
what you have done. Not one,
single word out of your mouth
but yea; I expected so, you’re quiet,
still I continue to wonder and muse,
why’d you holler and wail when Alexander