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.