There is no trail of breadcrumbs,
No shortcut to the bank of the river,
Gracefully flowing out of time, ever present.
Yet there it is, a familiar shadow in the falling darkness,
A well buried deep beneath a mossy burrow,
A rite of recognizing yourself.
Here, where now is all we ever taste,
When your lover gently brushes her body up against your own,
The smell of her skin like the perfumed nectar of an angel,
Silently filling the bedroom with the aroma of lust,
She asks what you want, what you need,
And all you say is “hush,”
Leaning forward to softly trace the curve of her lips with your finger.
Until the morning, solitude swallowed by loneliness,
The candle burned down to a puddle of hard wax,
Cold tile floor beneath your feet,
Rays of dawn shining through the window,
A glass of water on the counter,
Her love reduced to red smears of lipstick on rustled sheets,
A lace bra nestled in the corner,
And a strand of golden hair on your pillow,
Footsteps leading to the banks of your memory,
Away from yourself.