In this sea of three-piece-suits lies your new bed:
your charcoal casket; your shimmering pink blush,
colder, yet with more color than the last time I saw you alive.
And as I balance on purpling, swollen toes shoved into black stilettos,
I wonder what waters pulled you into this whirlpool of suits and ties,
as if you had drowned in another Atlantic Ocean instead of your own head.
And when these statues sob, their sound waves crash the shore,
drowning the elevator music that sings sweetly from the speakers overhead.
But you remain at the head of this crest, bearing your soul in your cocktail dress,
doomed to collapse the mausoleum walls.