Cyndi, we love the taste of you scrambled on our tongues, and Rome holds us less fondly when you are gone. No matter that we do not know the sordid details of Sextus Propertius’ love affair with you. We, too, have been abandoned to a world transformed by first loves, beginning and ending in declarative perpetua.
Prometheus, chained to the mountain, stopped struggling against the vultures and thought of the red dots of fire that would mimic the night sky, much as we pause in our grieving for love lost to think of all the poems we will write.
-- Phoebe Zinman
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