The Golden Hour
I miss your golden hands that cooled my days, drew my pains.
Your cigarette lips that flavoured my words.
All that’s you and all that’s worse,
When in darkness I felt your breath as we explored our little death.
Veronese green were our dreams that curbed the seams of ancient dreams
And circled our head with copper red crowns and led
To our dead palace of tears and feverish malice.
I miss your hair and mine, when made just one,
We shared the night and owned the light.