J'ai plus de souvenirs que si j'avais mille ans.

Counting the years lost

Like rings on a mango tree

I saw a blue tinge like a halo around every thing.

These, love letters, more passion, than microfilm

Could hold - adulterate my thought, hides

More secrets, contains more sexual acts than

Your body could verify, where, your hands

Touch, pale skin and silk,

Where musk, from the broken vial,

Breathe the perfume on a throat.

-I am a room in a disused brothel

A red candle stolen from a church,

The edges of the atrium,

A wound, where

All love ends and begins again.

A stone jar of dreams, tiny scar on a heart,

The face of a man, foreign postcard,

Souvenir maps wrapped old feelings

-I am a vault where this blueness stays, the ink,

Line of thread, embroiderer of parchment,

Inker of veins.