The photos of the
woman
I loved and still do
are arrayed on a table
by the bed we shared
Her flesh has turned to ashes
Her flesh in that bed
was a silky warmth
addictively wonderful
nightly available until
her flesh was turned to ashes
My memory of her in life
is welded in my consciousness
Her talk, her touch, her presence
living with me still, although
her flesh has turned to ashes
A
suggestion: try my novel, THE
PENCIL ARTIST, on Kindle
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