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.