I know better
than to disturb the dust
settled on my memory of us.

And yet.

Mostly I recall the moon that night,
how it dazzled in the violet light,
granting all the limelight
to the modest supermarket.

Oh, man of the mountain,
do you forget how I helped you climb?
How can you stab this doting heart of mine
now that you've reached the top?

Her simmering skin,
malleable enough to mould,
plied with a libretto of empty vows,
sung as though he meant them.

We don’t speak the same language, you and I.
Petals on the bed do not woo me.

Threads fray, and details fade.
Remind me how it went, my love.

Swathed in summer’s heat,
sipping rosé, smooth and sweet,
racing for the boat back,
the moon, a cherry ringed in black,
paints the journey scarlet.

I waste my words on our wounded ties,
trying to wrench a heart that long stopped beating.

The memory lingers like spilt glitter,
refusing to wash away.