Hey.
I had hoped to catch you before you left

yourself in that bar- walked out a replica of his
face. We transfigure, us girls, all potion and sugar cane.
He is not a man worth becoming someone else for.

He has not even become himself. When he says he is
too old, too rough, a fang still dripping
with blood, he does not mean love me harder

but he will let you, if you insist. And you
are. Insistent, I mean. This is how
I knew I would find you here

hair a pink sunset, hoping the glow
would drag his reluctant tongue back
to your name, where it belongs.

This is no way to live, dear.
Call me back when you get this.