more than love

We loved with a love that was more than love.
Edgar Allan Poe

it wasn't always this way:
cheeky smiles and eyes
hiding or revealing some
fire, the taste of longing
still fresh, still bittersweet
on pursed, pink lady lips.
it used to be cold. gunmetal
pressed to sick sternums;
how it felt to be alone together.
her breath like the thick turbans
wound around the heads of
those they sought to find;
hot, labored, overbearing.
their bodies pressed into
tight spaces, forced knowledge
of each other, while erratic
heartbeats revealed the truth.
and now, one is left, only one
remains, and she is hollow,
the stench of loneliness
coating her pretty face.
what they never had will
now never be, because
the other knew she would
leave her in short time, leave
her broken like a hallelujah,
the tears warm and sticky
drying on her cheeks, so
she gave herself up, mouth
set in determination, allowing
for death to become her, but
even amid the gunfire, the hail
of silver and copper and prayer,
she never gave up on her, the woman
she'd come to know and the woman
she knew she would be with in the end.