Breath of a Memory
What to do when I know I am no poet?
When my protestations are silenced
and my verses sink
beneath the perfume on your pillow
But the reality of your skin
and your hair falling
across the breath of a memory
is like your fingers brushing against my heart
And then I realize
that I am art without hope
and I know I must stop evoking you
Forever
And only drown
in your presence...
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