The air has your color
the memory of its own,
repeatable sense to remind
me how hips shared hunger and
joined hands traveled the same path
of untold story.
The time tastes after your touch,
after the sound of every stripped
particle, wanting to get lost
in you, collided with the meaning
And the space collected every drip
skipped from the lip, a tear, a sweat,
scorched on the bathroom floor
fossilized witness of how I wish to
die – curled in you, sigh extant.
Maja S. Todorovic