Lost Hours With Mae

I tried to think softly,

so as to leave no mark or imprint, 

so as to not sully, with sticky hands,

the nights and hours

spent with Mae.


But when I lay alone,

watching dead minutes

flake and fall

away from the walls of time

I thought of her, of Mae,

a lattice-work of bones,

a blossom of blisters

left with blunted teeth.


When I was starved

of faith and light,

I dreamed of the year when it rained in April,

of the penitents who cried

in the street,

of arcane pleasures

and dirty feet.


Searching for sustenance

through sepia tint,

all I am left with to assuage 

gnawing hunger,

are flashes of elusive curves,

fed on naught but

the bread and water

of weaning love.


the delicate dome of hoarded joys

falls around me.

Memories splinter,

cut and caress me.

No pristine collection

could escape the smear

of sluttish time’s persuasive thrill.

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