Modulations

Something about loose lips and loose women, old young recollections some too dark for conversation, some too light for a poetry reading. Your face is disfigured; when I open your page, greying origami birds fly out of your story beaks carrying lint and gilings, but something else, a partial picture of what we left in each other. We will cry about this one day, after the last day perhaps. I am modulated by memory, by the lingering smell of your lusts. The slow simmer of times throes and pangs. Maybe by then we will catch each other’s breaths inhale long last drops, bundled together as close as new bled lambs.