Fickle memories unsettle
    causing a stack of dominoes
    to crumble beneath the weight
    of silver gravity: a shimmering
    moment fading, paling,
       the black and white photograph,
       the one where my right leg
       is unconsciously draped
       over your languid left knee,
          while we tremulously pose
          for a succulent kiss,
          your taut frame pinning
          me against the charcoal cushion.

There are no lavish lies here,
     just an unbridled, painted truth.

I was alive; you were alive.
    The fuming fire that penetrated
    was merely reality declared
     in that fervent snap shot,
     sealed for a future remembrance.
          I still embrace you in folded skin
          and raging veins. I still savor
          your butterscotch lips,
          as my tingling tongue caresses
              salty skin.

It is a caramel keepsake,
    a tangy indulgence that reaps
    molten sentiments, a docile souvenir
    from years passed, but the prickly
    present betrays me; I can hear
        saccharine whispers of “I love you”,
        or “It’s going to be okay babe”,
        worst yet, “the doctors have discerned
        the problem”, the sound
             of the perpetual optimist, the court
             jester dancing to his last breath.

“Damn you. You promised. You promised!”

The breakable moment flees
     to just a sore blotch, sinking
     inside the satin stains
     of my hallowed stomach.
           I trudge on, not out of perseverance
           but out of reverence. You completed
           me. I fulfill us by remembering.

Capricious Polaroid. I finally beam,
     inhale a gust of breath, liberate it,
           and tacitly remain satiated.