Tell a truth, or tell a lie

That city turning pink in the sun’s slow descent; the night air still vibrant yet gentle now as if in its old age the day had finally found a way to be kind & calm without losing all passion for the fire of summer;

your hair, shed like feathers discovered in

my bed, a mess of tresses untangled & tangled again:

now all only a memory

of a scent & the slope of your shoulders at 5 a.m in the morning;

photographs of long lost days

when we still adored each other, before the decay became poison:

the silence, the speech, the years of peace

& warmth & war & lies & tired eyes & not fucking any more

& bored

so bored

of the performance; another dancing monkey out of sync with the organ grinder; a comedy without laughter, a tragedy without despair, only anger. All this & more now lives below a gravestone with no inscription, as our dream begins to decay beneath the surface,

where the remains may let new life flourish.