On Primrose Hill

There's nothing more for me to say. 
Nothing more, for me to do. 
Should I ever sleep in peace, 
Must I find it in the absent you? 
Turning colors into grayer shades 
Tarnishes a well-worn blighted blue
Lady of the Silver Lake, 
Your void doth roust my gloom. 
Bergamot scents bear broken bones, 
Its marrow lies uncouth. 
A dream hath sting from memories 
Quixotically contested with the greatest noose. 
I choose to become a ghost, 
Rather than dream another thought with life, on you. 
Should one pine for Plath, then I must be crass: 
    "Her pithless oven never held room for two…"