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 light
as my brushstrokes on canvas
failed to articulate
the sheer weight
of what passed between us
in that singular moment
outside the net
of time.
should i have waited
for you beneath
the tangled bower?
i’ll confess to dreams
of you undressed,
drinking you in with eyes
a shade too bold
and allowed to trespass (again)
like days of old —
but nothing neglected
can stay maintained
with so many years
stretched out between us
like pale fabric
pulled taut
over a wooden frame,
seemingly passing judgment
on all that remains.
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