traces of old lovers
composed unintentionally
in dreams,
inadvertently
in strangers faces.
They are not here;
no traces
no smell no taste
cannot feel them cannot hear
their voice;
so what is this that
lingers?
My
eyes
do not
but apparently
I
can
see them.
See what?
Memory—
so unreliable
composes subjective
references
histories.
Recall what once was,
whether you care to
or not.
The mind’s eye never blinks.
It’s symphonies,
though composed by us,
are impossible for us to understand,
and leave us with retrospective analysis:
grasping at fog.
Is it their smoke
that lingers?
No—
less concrete than that,
even.
Come back to memory
what once was
what I once felt
what we once felt
where value was once placed
where value was lost
where pieces of
me
were lost,
left,
drained,
like blood into ink onto a page.
