I will call the depths of hell my home, if my Eurydice picks the curtains

I walk into the confessional,
he enquires about my sins,
expecting a penitent man.
I kneel down, not even a whisper
for I cannot beg, forgiveness is redundant
my sorrow is all I have left of you,
confession has become the sin.
Taken from me, never from within me;
if this ache is all I have left of you,
I will never let his prayers relieve me.
Haunt me, my love.
The lord can wait.