Burned Memoirs

Burned Memoirs

I've kept them for so long

they smell like scandal.

One after another

they rhapsodized our days

with unimaginable desires,

forbidden wines

that never ripened

poured on the dregs.

Burned in the backyard

they no longer mean anything

only the coal of years

or perhaps your fruit, supposed nest

of tenderness, barely the blade

of a paper flag

blackened by polluted winds.

The photographs responsible

for the ferocity of earth

multiply inside my memory

like your skin once agitated

my breathe.

You're nothing, I'm nothing,

this never happened

and for the time being

the always treacherous memory

will be our dubious shore.