La petite mort

It’s too bad She was too-good-
to-be-true; to me, She was a god-
-hiss with panties full of poison
as She came; to me as a digital
swarm of small bytes that stole
my soul in bits after reading
my fortune; which sadly was
like all fortunes read, naturally
opaque on its arrival, but…
unnaturally obvious in retrospect.
Then (and pardon my French)
after la petite mort’s last gasp,
She ended the bliss just had
with a final wave of her hand
over her whiskey-colored note.
And, just like that – lickety-slit –
&-She was gone. Deus mortuorum.
And, for god’s sake, how did I
not see that [and her] coming.
Because my eyes were closed?
No. When She was coming,
of course, I couldn’t see my
dagger hidden in her whet sheath
(make that, I couldn’t imagine)
so mesmerized by real love,
was I. So how was I to know
then, She intended to kill us
from the start? – Because,
as they say: All fuck is blind.
(And god, how truly fucked I was.)