On a plane with your memory
Fading away from me
Over the next mountain
I might forget your skin
And its touch, and the way
We’d touch feet beneath the
Table over a cigarette
And how you’d look at me, bluely,
After making love, while I wore
Your pink dressing gown, and we’d
Giggle and forget it was one thirty a. m.
And only Monday and have another smoke,
But maybe I’m losing track of what’s important,
The waste that destroyed us, the after-burn
Of the rocket that blew us up.
So that all that is left is these few lines
To prove that something survives.