The rust of decayed roses
in filthy vases, dust
on the table, once with love
been made from the bones
of a beech giant
next to the old letters
handwritten sketches
of two souls, forever
young without worries
no scratches in the gold
of the promised fidelity
no indefinite questions
or double doubts
that burrow and toss
between skin against skin
Collection “The Yellow House Museum”
