You weave in and out one last time.
A secret loneliness led you back to me.
I filled your void with more toxins
before you rose up on your moonlit spindrift.
Going to sleep for a very long time now.
Headboard morphing into headstone.
Cobwebs comfortable in this formidable
landscape we tried to cultivate.
You, Don Quixote, alone in my dreams
as if thirst had led us to drink blindly
of poisonous one anothers,
leading us here, this final resting place.