Memoirs

With an inclination, with strange proclivities of the night;
With a strange desire, I think of you;
I think of your eyelids drenched with some blood;
Of a dream you killed last night;
I think of your lips with stains;
Of the words you never spoke;
I think of those moments when you were left behind;
In my thoughts, in my mind;
I think of those days when you never came;
To the brink of my smile, to the edge of my shame;
And then, that night, you were there;
Half naked, sitting by my besotted gaze;
Waiting, for some hope and a life;
Waiting for another breath and an old strife;
But I left, in haste, in waste;
With a trail of a scent, of disappointment;
I stepped off the last stair, with no words to spare;
With no hatred or amour, but a soft clamor;
Of a desire, to lie beside, the dreams those have dried;
The words those have died, the hope I have denied;
But you shan’t be there, in my memoir;
On an orange evening, staring outside;
Towards the horizon, sinking and bright;
Bearing the proclivities of this strange night…