Occasionally I slip into something
that reminds me of you. With a heart-stopping
shudder your lips are brushing my ear.
We're sitting in that dingy apartment in some far away city
talking about things we wouldn't
have dared to anywhere else.
I was fascinated, infatuated. You were the very
soft-soaked paintbrush that I needed
to be painted with. You knew my colors better
than I did, at a time when
I didn't know anything.
Sometimes I see your eyes, or hair, flashing
reflections in random women. You were
a minute and a half, and still, your scent lingers.