Nights are long enough
to dream of Petra
without Knowing the salt of the desert
or the cold of a tomb,
leaving empty arms for morning
but a smiling memory fragment
of what was held so close
in the exploration of dreams;

we were there,
in sun and dust,
laughing over myths,
making our own stories.

I brush aside
apologies followed by
the same behavior.

One day feels like a thousand years.

Giving over
to nature’s righteous bells,
I insist on shadow play.

To be kept hidden, to be kept,
they made me their construct,
curves devoid of flesh.

I don’t see this as fiction.

I am more or less
a whore in sheep’s clothing,
taking my tea alone.

After the glow faded
to edges of tattered shadow,
we stopped dancing.

The lights flickered, leaving us
a delicate do-si-do, warped
like in slow motion,
a slide toward a sultry Armageddon.

No words to cling to,
we were two strangers again.