It is the dark
border of my body,
the hair, the traces.
Locking and keying
the lair of love, of memories.

Its wetness
soaking and drying
the verse in my muffled throat.
The first glance
that wooed them,
the two fingers that knitted them
and the last three strokes.

That night and its date
still besots,
and breaches upon this afternoon’s window.
They awaited to be opened
only so that
you could be closed
with its charm,
its chasm,
its chastity.

The pillow where
they were let loose
where pure love was painted,
pants with an alien palette.

Its black brush
freshly dipped in sorrow,
its transience,
its truth,
its travesty.