water drips steadily into the black sink
there is no warmth here
some breathing relic of a bygone era speaks lively volumes on death;
rigor mortis racks the bodies of intent listeners
there is honey and dirt on his breath
he has been in the apiary
round eyeglasses grow brittle and their lenses blurry, closing the window of his soul to a loving corpse who cannot smell the dirt on his breath
honey and cologne
where has he been?
water drips steadily into the black sink
he touches her arm;
fleeting warmth,
bitter cold,
here again