Carnival

The mariachi trumpets fade with the red gored sun mellowing at dusk.

Children dart behind, scuffling in the dust, brown wrinkled skin like scabbards of lost dreams.

You sit in the dark a silhouette singing Spanish songs of lost love and pain.

I hear church bells in your voice, the lonely pang of night keeps you drifting

between dreams and sorrow, of lost opportunities, things unsaid, actions incomplete.

You lay beside me the music a distant breeze half remembered. Perhaps it's best this way.