Sunday, July 16, 2017

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.

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