This morning is a picture postcard of our first ****.
Sweaty and enclosed
a symbolic fan dawdles slowly
over our youthful bodies;
Velvet with electricity.

I can still feel the starch strength of your hair,
read the invitation on your lips
(the only novel written solely for me)
and ignore the gooseflesh as I recall the magic of
your perfume from the deepest, darkest past.

Your mystery was forged out of the shade
which followed early mornings,
cool like gold covered ice,
sometimes we drank the Sun's wine
from the Sun's cups
and your ******* were bared to the sleeping city
pale and luminous as two alien moons
while overhead the early birds sang their song.

Now you live in the future,
as so many others do,
and I am left here;
with a faded blue rose
who's perfume has fled and now smells of old velvet.