In me, you – the memory

Not even Lethe can efface

Those dulcet lays of yours

Have converted me

– into what? Not even I know,

But I say it all in petto,

With my lips brushing your ear

In a reverie of endorphins.

I say it all in a lisp of wetness,

My words a hansel

With a glean of tomorrow,

Skylarking to your ear

On short feet,

Treading oh so delicately.

So nobody else can hear,

I remember saying these things

Y o u – a singularity

of history that Clio has

not yet even finished,

whose antelucan eyes

repeat ourselves

like a duvet of a book,

who’s binding explodes

with billets-doux imagined.