untitled

there is a violent tenderness i push upon her,
against the long shadows of her black hair;
sex of her lips; the space between kisses,
comings and goings.
`
(the baggage of limbs and faint
remembrances is the wax of the flame,
shadows of touch which,
burn against the past.)
`
there are still some particles of
memory in my hands which deny life,
but never
you.