I dream of our fallen voices-
I am awoken by the vestige of your breasts,
like legs of wine falling.

I hear our voices over a table,
again your elbows,
the distinct way you placed them,
upon a January night-

but it was not my place or way to stay as i have stayed before-

falling upon the empty vases,
the Aprils; the mornings when the windows spoke of our love
as children swing swaying in the park,
but in the mountainous challis of the dark red lips of a winter night,
when from under a crimson hood you let fall the beauty of a woman's face
kissed with the cold kiss of winter-

I kissed you,
my fingers snug atop your tufts of twirling amber;
invisible falling stars,
we enter drifting,
passing through a door,
another moment to notice,
your elbows kissing plates-

but the writing of the night above the corner of a thousand horns-

I peer into the window,
the dimly lit light,
endlessly smoking,
imprisoned within the portrait
of one anthers eyes-

the morning, the coffee, the door;
the staircase was an organ to my heart-
your colossal legs the steps to your beautiful cunt
which I should have drawn blushing,
bursting beneath a mauve duvet.