Bathhouse number two, she reclined in her own tears
A rose petal or nine left on my shrine,
As she prayed for another sign;
How could I tell her he was a cicada in the summer,
A seasonal affliction to her soul?
He stole her smiles for sweet rolls
Harboured her kisses for trade at the brothels
Priestess of my temple, do not weep at my feet
He was never worthy of the towers to your heart
But perhaps she is worthy of making your bed?
This is part 3 of 5 in a collaboration done with my dear friend, gliitchlord, circa 2018.