Making Love To Bach

And you’re wearing his dress again,

Ten times promised to restore

And mirror your body

In another man’s wardrobe.

You’re sensing his face again,

Ashened the cigarette butts, curled

Unassumed ceremoniously dumped

On a fairground’s chamber,where

We made love to Bach.

I’m sensing you’re not tired of him,

You’re missing him, Touching him,

Tasting him, lingering for the way he holds

Your hair, selfishly, solemnly, stood

By the leather clad clothes he wore on

The day he saw my reflection.

Is it worth projecting, or protecting,

The secrets we hold, for a whole

Other, rather, sparkling adulterous case,

Apropos to purpose, I habit

Myself in the arms that wish to

Leave me alone.