Fading

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

Before work.

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,

Anyway.

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.