Let me keep you for the infinite days, as our days collide with their due expiration, your face will be sweeter each day that I am without you. Only then could you be so lovely. In the Great Death of the space two bodies one occupied, the residue of a man is but his wit, his charm, and unfailing force-nothing more. Not the cruelty, nor the words, unrepeatable. Washed with the tide. And what beauty remains is the ghost of a man, not the boy of flesh, but his valiant self, the Holy whose love still lay dormant for another woman to wake.
What are these dream-days of our memories? Only ever fond and never rude. To retreat inside the vaults, unkept pages recounting all the days in the sun, oh, the decadence and confusion of the past! Dripping down drain pipes and wasted on the worst kind of company. And barely any of it true. In between the dawn of this very day, and the ones of the days before blooms a place of wonder, endless graves of postcard-memories of a life, never-lived. Fiction. Truth was an ugly bore and nothing more.
But in my mind’s eye, you were burning. And I would visit you when I so pleased. On cool nights, to follow you back to the place where we would sit. And you would be mighty. And how pleasant you would be, for now you were who I meant you to be. I prefer you now, kept inside the breast of my thoughts, and nowhere else. Should the body you wore walk his feet to my door, I will not answer. Better to spend the afternoon to dream of a kind man with your borrowed face.
