On Being Thrown Over – a poem

On Being Thrown Over


Would your love for me increase

were I to die

or would my barely-mourned decease

erase me from your memory?


Would your febrile eyes

seek out a physical response, the fuel

to weave a quilt of lies

made posthumously cruel?


Was I no more than ornament,

a transient nod to Spring,

the blush of one short season’s mild content

fit now for only fickle disregarding?


Was there nothing I could ever be



or evermore to thee?