Only Her, Always Her, My Mireanne.
by
Aurelian Lysarre of the Shire of Northampton
Content Note: Aurelian's Scrolls
This poetry collection explores themes of grief, love, loss, childbirth trauma, emotional neglect, mourning, and guilt through the lens of a devoted bard reflecting on the life and death of his beloved wife.
Some verses contain intense emotional imagery and may be distressing to those who have experienced bereavement, relationship regrets, or traumatic childbirth.
These poems were written with great care, as fictional echoes of a soul trying to make sense of irreversible choices. If you are tender-hearted or healing from similar wounds, please proceed with gentleness.
You are not alone.
— Naerimort Press
At the Well, Before I Knew Her Name
by Aurelian Lysarre of the Shire of Northampton
In honour of the love of his existence, Mireanne
***
She stood with the grace of an unanswered prayer,
raven hair cascading like midnight over her shoulder—
no braid to bind it, no reason to tame it,
only wind, only beauty,
only the innocence and freedom of a life untouched.
Her eyes—dark, not with sorrow,
but with warmth I had not yet earned.
Like soil after rain.
Like dusk with a hearth waiting.
She smiled - Gods, she smiled -
And I swear that world hushed
Her lips as red as pomegranate fruit
in the drawings old monks feared to finish.
She wore the forest,
green twined at her waist like ivy,
and I, a fool enamoured, watched in secret,
As the maiden cheerfully walked to the well
to fetch water for her family—
and with it the fresh spring water
She carried my heart away too.
Beneath the Old Elm, I Learned the Shape of Her Mouth
by Aurelian Lysarre of the Shire of Northampton
In honour of the love of his existence, Mireanne
***
We kissed beneath the Old Elm,
that gnarled monument of our city’s spine—
where roots ran deeper than mercy
and branches bore the weight of men
who broke laws for the sake of freedom.
The noose once hung there.
They called it the Hero’s Grave.
A tree that remembered
every name justice failed to carve into stone.
But on that day,
in the hush between morning and dusk,
with her fingers tangled in my sleeve
and her eyes daring me to ask permission,
the Old Elm bore witness
to something softer.
Her lips met mine like a vow—
no audience, no gallows,
just breath, and bark,
and a love brave enough to stand
where death once reigned.
I did not fear the ghosts.
Even the tree leaned closer,
its branches aching not with memory,
but with blessing.
A symbol of rebellion,
made a symbol of us.
The Meals I Praised With My Silence
by Aurelian Lysarre of the Shire of Northampton
In honour of the love of his existence, Mireanne
***
We were married in spring—
when the air still carried the warmth of our vows
and the house was not yet filled
with the quiet rot of forgetting.
She cooked with hands that still remembered
how I once touched her wrists like they were holy.
She placed plates before me like offerings,
and I—
I barely looked up.
Every meal, a small miracle.
Every day, a soft unravelling.
We fought over nothing.
A missing spoon. A threadbare rug.
The kettle left too long to boil.
And every argument ended with her smile
becoming a little less certain.
She asked me once—
in a voice no louder than candlelight—
“Do you still love me?”
And I—
I did not hear her.
I was chasing songs.
And gold.
And the echo of a name I thought the world should know.
I shouted at her
because the floor was dirty.
She said nothing.
And that silence—
that silence was the first death I didn’t notice.
I did not see
how her voice began to vanish.
How her joy curled in on itself
like parchment left too close to the flame.
I loved her,
but only after she was gone.
Where Her Voice Ended
by Aurelian Lysarre of the Shire of Northampton
In honour of the love of his existence, Mireanne
***
It began with a scream—
sharp, high, feral—
a sound I had never heard from her throat
and will never unhear.
The room stank of iron and sweat,
the air split by sobbing
that wasn’t hers,
and wasn’t mine.
She gripped the bedsheets
like they were ropes tied to this world.
She begged
for something I could not give.
And I—
I held the doorframe.
I watched.
A coward. A poet. A husband in name only.
There was so much blood.
On the sheets.
On the floor.
In the folds of her dress I had once kissed
like it was spun from prayer.
Then—
silence.
A silence so loud
it split the breath in my chest.
It cracked my ribcage and filled it with ice.
The doctor looked at me
as if he wished to be anywhere else.
The midwife wept.
And her sister—
oh, her sister looked at me
like I had killed her myself.
And maybe I had.
Because I never heard her laugh again.
Never saw her brush her hair in the windowlight.
Never heard her whisper my name
like it meant something more than failure.
All I remember now
is the stillness of her lips
and the way her fingers curled
like they were trying to hold on
to anything.
Even me.
The Red Gown She Died Without
by Aurelian Lysarre of the Shire of Northampton
In honour of the love of his existence, Mireanne
***
I washed her skin
as if it could wake her.
Every inch,
from the soles of her feet
to the curve of her throat
where once I whispered promises
I thought I’d have time to keep.
The water cooled too quickly.
She did not shiver.
I brushed her hair—
each stroke an elegy,
each tangle a knot I could not undo.
I spoke to her.
Quietly.
Of small things.
Of foolish things.
Of the way her smile used to rise before her lips moved.
And then I kissed her fingers—
still stiff,
still cold,
still hers.
Fingers that once stitched hems,
carried firewood,
cupped my face
when I wept over nothing.
She had asked me for a red silk gown, once.
Months ago.
I laughed.
“And what use is a fine gown,” I said,
“for a woman who only sweeps the floor?”
That floor was clean.
The morning she died.
So I bought the dress.
At full price.
Twice over.
Too late.
I laid her in it
like she was a bride again,
and whispered,
“It’s yours now.
Even if you never wear it walking.”
She looked beautiful.
Even in death.
Especially in death.
And I—
I have never hated myself more
than in the moment I realised
she had needed nothing from me
but to say yes.
The Burial, As I Remember It
by Aurelian Lysarre of the Shire of Northampton
In honour of the love of his existence, Mireanne
***
It was beautiful.
That’s the only word I’ve ever dared use.
Not in the way spring is beautiful.
Not in the way her smile once split a morning.
But in the way ruin becomes stillness
when it is too sacred to scream.
Her coffin was small—
far too small for everything she had held.
I had no right to call it hers.
But it did not feel like mine.
They placed her within it like a secret
I was never meant to tell.
The flowers were everywhere—
white, red, purple, wild.
All of them wrong.
None of them her.
The birds did not sing.
Even the sparrows refused to fill the silence.
And the sun,
that traitor,
hid behind a sky of mourning wool
and never once dared show its face.
There were people.
Faces.
Words.
But I do not remember a single one.
Only her.
Only the shape of her hands folded too still.
Only the brush of silk against her collarbone—
the red gown,
the one she never wore for the living.
When it was done—
when they said their words and looked at me with pity too shallow to drown in—
I sent them away.
All of them.
It was me
and the shovel.
No—
me and my hands.
I buried her myself.
Fistful by fistful.
Dirt on silk.
Soil on bones.
My fingers split.
Bled.
My tears dried before I was done.
And still I kept digging,
as if I could bury my guilt beside her
and not have it rise again
in every verse I’d write for the rest of my life.
I Prayed to Her Stone More Than I Ever Prayed to God
by Aurelian Lysarre of the Shire of Northampton
In honour of the love of his existence, Mireanne
***
In summer, her grave bloomed.
Not with flowers,
but with light.
The birds returned
—only here, only now—
and sang songs too joyful for a tomb.
But she deserved beauty,
even after.
The stone was pale and smooth,
carved with trembling care
by hands I paid too much to
and still not enough.
Her name, soft as a sigh.
The dates, too brief to be believed.
I came every day.
I wrote.
Not songs for taverns.
Not verses for courts.
Only her.
Always her.
I would press my forehead
to the chilled curve of her name,
and whisper into the stone,
“Give her back.
Or take me too.”
I never looked at another.
Not once.
Not even in passing.
As if my eyes had signed an oath.
I prayed—
not to the God they speak of in foreign lands,
but to any power that would listen.
I begged.
Let me die.
Let me follow her.
Let me find her soul
and fall to my knees before it.
If there is such a thing as rebirth—
make me hers again.
Let me worship her right.
Let me serve her,
not as husband,
but as penitent.
If you return her to me—
I will never write a line that is not her name.
I will never see another face.
I will spend all of time
watching only her.
And this time—
I will not miss a single whisper
before it fades.
Forgiveness
by Aurelian Lysarre of the Shire of Northampton
In honour of the love of his existence, Mireanne
( Posthumous Volume 1)
***
I found her
at the edge of the dusk
where breath no longer reached me,
and time bent
in reverence.
She stood
not as a ghost,
but as a goddess
in the shape of my wife.
I fell to my knees.
What else could I do?
There she was—
unchanged, and yet beyond recognition.
Her beauty had only deepened,
wreathed in shadowlight and stillness,
graced with the weightless patience
of one who had waited.
And she—
she did not scorn me.
Her fingers
brushed my shoulder
like I was not a failure,
but a beloved
long wandered from home.
And in that touch
was breath.
Not lungs or air—
but the breath of being seen
and forgiven.
I wept.
I kissed the hem of her memory.
And I swore—
Never again.
Not a single gesture unnoticed.
Not a single word unpraised.
If she wanted silk—
I would sell my soul twice over.
If she wanted emeralds—
I would rob the crown of Elysium.
But she only wanted—
poetry
and kisses.
So I gave them.
Line after line.
Mouth to mouth.
Devotion inked with every stolen moment
we carved into our corner of the Underworld.
And there—
her laughter bloomed.
It echoed off stone
like a psalm.
She forgave me.
And in that forgiveness,
I began again.
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