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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