Lingers fresh in my mind like,
The winter mint of your suit and tie.
Little, pink, plump lips meshed,
To a crevasse, like a brush on a canvas,
An easel of torment to colorful ecstasy.
Cheap cologne and designer perfume,
Fresh bread and red wine, poured forth
From your mouth before the fireplace.
An ensemble of silk and satin scarves,
Pinstripes like a cage behind which you hide
A mountain of a physic and a blunt truth.
Below saxophones waltz through gold plated panes,
With an unashamed taste for iron and ribbons.
Fingers devising schemes upon a Persian rug,
Tongues spelling secrets words would never tell,
Beneath a yellow, grated chuck of heartless rock.
Restless teeth and hungry eyes like ghosts,
That float through time, a pant of the breathless,
Swallowing a sour sap until drunk and full.
Wax drips slowly, keeping time, hot and steady,
Until the sun rears its blemished face and like ghosts,
We dissipate to our own secret corners, relishing in memory.
Your memory is just a distant flicker
Of an image in the candlelight,
Dancing upon the floor.
