I drink my own pain
to wash away the memory of your face,
your lips, your hands,
your touch.
I spin the music ever louder
to vanquish the memory of your voice,
your laughter, your words,
your hymns.
A vanishing memory
of a romance not to remember;
summer nights, drinking vine,
making love or was it sex?
Left lonely is my paling tan-line
which like the fragile leaf
will turn to dust
when fall is here.
How could we survive the winter?