Rotten
old memories
left in
rags and tatters,
dusky
blue-yellow bruise
of a heart
that’s been battered,
jagged skirting
of glass
where once
love did linger,
warm, damp
press of your lips,
and the pulse
of your fingers,
throbbing
hollow of pain
as I reminisce of we
and the us
that we were,
but not the us
that we’ll be.

j.