a sepia-stained ramshackle
mess is all that remains
of the gallery
where we first met.
i don’t know if you recall
how once you posed
bathed in streams
of golden sunlight
as my timid brushstrokes
across the canvas
failed to articulate
the sheer weight
of what passed between us
in that hallowed moment
beyond the strands
of space or time.
i’ll confess to dreams
of you undressed
and drinking you in with eyes
a shade too bold,
permitted to trespass
once again like days of old —
but nothing neglected
can endure
with so many years
stretched out between us
like moth-eaten fabric
pulled taut
over a wooden frame,
unable to hold
the pale likeness
of all that remains.
