Echoes of Absence – Karina Longo

January 4, 2026

The Burial of Love

 
Cloth of soft silk, cut gently by your hands,
cloud-like, milk-scented,
clean and sound.
Enveloped the beating flesh
which dared to dream
of destiny beyond the darkest skies,
a dream that fell on spoiled earth,
and soon dissolved; a dying rose.

O love, you kissed the crucifix:
but you’re a lover, not a priest divine.
And yet, the bluest lips you too kissed;
“God bless!”
your tears, like floods, I did not miss
upon your pale, unburdened cheeks.

 
Cassandra + Orpheus

 
What am I to you, anyway?
Some stray, always waiting,
often soaked in mud, rarely in rain,
its paws in a plughole,
wondering if it will ever dine?

Am I Cassandra?
Your four-leaf clove, unlucky side up;
a fool always clapping,
yet never getting foolish little
good morning! texts,
blessed if a single word spits out
of your mouth
burning me; my Wicker Man

Wait,
should I call you Orpheus?
Flirting with lyres and petals,
dreaming of the celestial
but every note at arm’s length,
catching breath only to let it
fall,
to ruin what
might have been
really celestial.

You belong in cramped London pubs,
acoustic guitar in your hands,
crumped Holy Mary
sticker attached to it;
pretending this is
the curse you were chosen for,
as if the world’s decay
were your own
mythic stage.

 
Unrequited Advice

 
Reinvent yourself,
and, however tempting,
that doesn’t mean
go to that tarot reader,
it just means
go:
I know you’re no Dylan —
but pick up that dusty velvet coat,
go somewhere by the ea,
(yes, when it rains
and the wind blows,
in November)
somewhere where seagulls might
fight for crumbs;
not pigeons,
certainly not
me:
go
and write the song
that doesn’t make you the martyr,
just the man with rain
caught in his hair.