These Days

These days of melancholy.

Immerse in the wash of skin.

Your begin and end.

The air is charged

and we’re in unison.

 

There citadel for this.

Ruins by now.

Old soul no doubt.

"I love like this,"

Spoke the bard and the

subsequent bacchanal.

The sudden end is rain.

The romanticism. 

The sardonic.

The new to do 

and I’ve been it.

Make her a 

fixture for a spin.

The wash of the morning.

Your breath on my neck.

She’s head to toe 

press of flesh.

 

She sweep in like 

reverence. 

All the more 

the structure sway.

second wind. 

G©