in silence

to swell alone
fondling artifacts from memory
both morphed and real
faded and wrinkled
frayed and brittle
is to be fermented like brandy

conjured pleasures
summoned whispers
enzymatic spices boring out spaces to dwell
piquants from well farmed soil
losing their taste from repetition
...like a wad of gum with a shallow half-life

won’t you swirl your finger in my thought soup
and lick it’s taste to determine ‘done’
honoring your preference for a deep stew
one that takes days to penetrate all membranes
spreading suffering’s concoction
time’s demise
and the flight of will
leaving only a hint of its scent
and a quivering carcass
in the shadow of your graceful absence