September 17th, 2003

Flint and Steel

Even now,
(that you're gone)
 the soft imprint of your warm lips
 still
burns
 (my vulnerable flesh).
  The gods above!

Fever's flush
 fills my worshipful temples
  with liquid gold --
How is it,
 you do this thing to me,
  so casual, so
sweet?

And then,
(without preamble)
 turn with a wave; your
 footsteps echo
hollow ...
 (Oh, didn't you know?)
  Leaving me, molten.

* Filed by Michael at 17:00 under Poetry
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