My siblings are ashes,
their laughter a hollow room.
I cup the silence as though it were wine, bitter and red, spilling through fingers that tremble.

You - my last tether, my anchor to this withering shore -
slip further each night into distance,
your eyes turned outward,
your breath no longer braided withmine.

I dress Despair in velvet and call it by name,
for it is the only companion left
who does not leave,
who does not turn away.

It sleeps beside me in our bed,
wraps its skeletal arm through mine,
and whispers of endings
so sweet they taste of honey on the tongue.

If there is mercy, it is only this:
that I remain,
to suffer beauty in ruin,
to drink Despair to the dregs
and make of it my feast.

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 11th of Lexadian, in the year 13 AC.