"Time to go to church," I heard.
My weekly dose of condemnation,
talk of purgatory and hell,
eating bodies and drinking blood.

Through death
I would be saved,
he died for me.

A potpourri were we,
rugosa rose petals with ripe hips,
tossed with lavender,
dried orange peels
held in a flowered silk scarf.

Leftovers from the fall,
that fall, yes.

You won.
But, you won years ago
it was never a competition
for me.
I was not in the race,
at all.
You were the best
he thought he could get.
Ironic
isn't it.