BusterStronghart@Gmail.com

Forgotten Days

You think I forgot
The bed and those yellowed sheets.
The iron bedstead,
The whiskey bottle on the nightstand,
Quiet music from the next room.

Your dress on the floor,
That fragrance of only you,
The sighs of oak leaves
Caressing the window pane.

And your whispers in my ear.
Did I bite, or was it you?

That, at last, I have forgot.

mek