Snow moves through the spaces once kept by others.
Bright eyes and misty music corner the lost.
And into a shadowed cold-floored abattoir of lost thoughts,
Fall and stager our blemished baying dreams of summer lust.
Remember that touch?
Can you still see the amazement?
If you let it, your mind will let you again know.
All of the places you felt and flowed.
That which changes us never leaves us.
Good and bad, we are the libraries of our feats.
The echo of skin and the pull of nails,
Bared teeth, all with faded illumination.
Only needing the application of observance.
To relight the glories.
I want to be Haunted by the Ghost of your Precious Love.
