She left with little trace,
lipstick on the mirror and a mug of dried coffee.
You threw away a soul for a little piece of her mind,
her scent like a Bruges café on your shirt lingers
if you inhale deeply enough.
Stare deep into the bottle, tarnished burgundy.
Eyes, half shut.
The perfect picture of lips pressed against glass
with Degas’ poise,
with beautiful noise.
And the best you could hope for was a glance,
reflection from the base,
if only an echo.
But she has left nothing - not even memories,
fading still like the haze from her clove cigarette;
you smell it still.
Created: Jul 17, 2010Document Media