losing her was like

baking cookies
in sylvia plath’s oven
seering in the flavors
of sorrow and loss

holding her was like

going swimming
with virgina woolf
the currents of her body
drawing me under

staring at her was like

skeet shooting
with hemmingway’s shotgun
the aim was immaculate
deadly and serene

loving her was like

curing tropical illness
with jack london’s brew
opium, mercury and heroin
healing and killing in turn