Some leave so early. We just get a taste
Of who they would have been. Perhaps a song
Or a novella. They were not here long
Enough to write much, scrawled it down in haste
A breath behind their ear a warning twinge
Death teeth at neck a shudder in short hair
A bat so small that it could tangle there
A squeak that might have been an unoiled hinge
But was not. Maybe pledged themselves to die
By hunger needles love or evil chance
Tore from our arms into black ragged dance
Yet not. Romantic imagery’s a lie.
No consolation. Just the brutal fact
They’re gone.No time for metaphor or tact.