I sit alone all day and dream
of jackboots, flowers, knives.
He whispers something very gentle
although I know he lies.
We stroll together in a field
glutted with ripened grain.
I kiss him on the lips. He puts
a bullet through my brain.
My ghost still wears the coat he lent me,
pressed roses in the sleeves.
You say I killed you -- haunt me, then.
How savagely he grieves.