With the blank slate before me
I recognize that memories, like secrets
are hard to keep.
Watching the white on the empty canvas
I remember the white on her dress
which deteriorates to purple and blue, with time.
Even her eyes, so many hours spent staring
are fading away.

But even in this mess of
failed relationships and
melting pools, even in this,
I believe it is
still alive, I believe that the sparks and spikes
and blocks of ice are just as cold as you
remember. I want to dance in the snowfall of our youth,
the fountains freezing as soon as the
liquid hits the air. The chill that permeates the
skin, the wind blowing through
veins. I find myself wanting, wanting.

But we keep keep on keep on
moving forward as
new obstacles emerge, protruding from the ground
four feet, five feet, six feet in front of where we are
walking. The smooth path is neither hope nor
memory, just an echo falling off the
cliffs in my subconscious.

But this is this is all we are.
And we go go hush hush
crouched in gardens hidden by roses and daisies.
And the daisies remind me of her and
her pink green orange dresses that all fade
to gray looking back in the fog.
That trip over the bridge took
so long on a broken tandem bicycle.
I could barely see the fringe of her skirt
get caught in the chain.

When I rediscover the artifacts of our
lost romance, the tube of rose-colored
lipstick leaning nonchalantly
against a corner in my bedroom
I switch, sweep it all up
into a pile that holds a decade of color
threatening to burn a hole in the carpet.

But my dreams are losing it,
the faces all ****** and solid
the movements rhythmic and calculated
the reds and greens and yellows turning to gray
the outlines coming in, minimizing the frame
until I’m left with a blank canvas
a scorched carpet
and a palate with colors ranging from white
to white
and back again.