I blinked and a year had passed.

The dialogue that we spun at dawn with
slippery tongues forged the shining stone
road that we now amble along.

Languorous masks with smiling eyes that
we knew so well have vanished and have
been replaced with new ghosts to contend
with and so tonight we clink glasses again
and drink to the nights that spit fire
into our hearts.

When the grim olive bottles on the table
murmur that our passions have not yet been
tempered we choose to believe their false
flattery and then you offer up the bonny
conceits that I shall pillage come morning.

I hope you do not mind that I have stolen the
luxurious threads with which you would have
woven your own tapestry.

I am not ashamed.