Jerome,
why do you talk?
Why do you word your sense in me,
why do you shine,
why do you weep,
why are your tears gems
and why do they glisten?
So they might whisper
in desertness of your name,
so they might mispronounce it
with their tongues aflame;
Jerome,
why do you walk?
So that the sea may perish
under your feet,
so that they can see you,
and then become replete;
Jerome,
why do you smile?
To torture me,
to mystify
a devouring discreet,
to have me apologise
for all I didn't plead.
Jerome.
… Jerome …
Jerome,
why do you cry?
Whoever did this to you should surely die,
but my fear's that it was I.