Fogged Imprints-

You breathe
like a found piano-
filtering through photos,
simple flashes and key
silhouettes
that died along the road...
of that melody.

I don't think
I can be a hope
for love,
with resistance...
without a breath....
must you clasp
your hands over our
frantic clutches
(upon an ancient
carriage,
traveling blindly).

Must you rock
to sleep
the time we lost?

Octaves are falling,
reason is being buried
and all I want is your
mouth to kindle me-
instead of whispers
that are painfully
losing their
touch.....
another song mistaken,
another mask misprinted.