Poem from back sometime

Laid That Love

It rushes back.

You remember how sweet she is;

you recall smiling

through mid-evenings cooking;

late nights sipping wine and painting

before taking off your splattered clothes

to lay down for bed,

her nose on your neck,

her breath down your chest

*        *               *

you forget

and wonder

Why am I doing this?

Her lips – 

you long to comfort with a kiss –

will never forgive you.

Her eyes,

pricked by tears,

search yours to discover why,

but you have no reason why.

Those words slip off –

wine becomes vinegar

                             Rakes the cheeks,

                             burns in the throat.

*        *               *

What, then, can be said

of what is laid to rest?

How can one ever forget

quivering lips and a heaving breast;

the watering eyes beneath furrowed brows

when he laid that love to rest?

*        *               *

She goes to her closet,

returns to her seat,

hands you that cherished paper bag

of wine corks and keepsakes.