When I told you I would be away for two years,
You said it would be a small death;
That at our age we cannot afford any bereavement,
However brief and reversible it may be.
Circumstances ruled.  Alone now
And facing Beijing's harshest winter in many years,
Your remembered words tumble towards me,
Relentless as the flurry of snowflakes
Drenching me in an acid bath.

The Chinese capital's trendy vinegared cocktails
Are touted as cures for indigestion and heartburn,
But they are no help against the accretion of emptiness
And the slow poison of loneliness.

If only words were subject to the chemistry of death.
Instead they sometimes dissolve,
Only to double in strength and rule you.