Smoke burns the edge of my thigh as I put out another flame, rather carelessly
The sash on my robe seems to wait for a tug,
giving generously more than it aimed to hide,
a little peek and a little touch, memories of our younger selves,
our more innocent selves.
We still are, you must interject
and I, never one.
As my fingers reach out for another glass of mortal elixir
that I pour straight down the carafe.
Always more, love.
The gaze of the noon sun seems to shine through the earthly hue
of the tearing green wallpaper of our room,
that once adorned the zenith of our lives
and now your faint silhouette, that my eyes seem to fathom,
till I blink again.
We make love to your thoughts
as the blues drone on in the background
and so does my voice, loud and incoherent,
almost irreverent for the times and their infliction upon us.
As my mind trails back to the nebulous moment where we seemed to have lost ourselves, and them.
And life just seems to jolt me back to this same reality,
again, and again.
Where one exists, without the other,
and the other exists, without none.
So we must make do, you tell me
as you move your lips to Roy Milton
and dust off your half-burnt cigarette on my shoulder.
And darling, time has come for us, yet again.