It was a dark wet night when we first made love,
To the echo of raindrops, clouds shielding the moon,
The smell of your sweat has seeped into my bed,
The fragrance of damp earth when it rains in June.
Or is it just my nose, cold-choked?
The mustard yellow of your dress that day,
The sepia toned dreams that together we wove,
The green of your eyes when caught by the sun,
Still paints the canvas of my life purplish-mauve.
Or is it just my eyes, tear-soaked?
Whenever in my thoughts I hear your footstep,
That I could tell apart, eyes closed in a crowd,
The sound you made trying not to make a sound,
My creaking racing pulse hammers out aloud.
Or is it just my heart, lipid-stressed?
My fevered brow burns as I toss and turn,
My mind screeching like a record in reverse,
I seem to be sinking in a morass of memories,
In merciful madness, living death or even worse.
Or is it all just a dream, seeking rest?
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