Your love, my beauty, our time,
are evanescent.
Like the fog of a Seattle morning,
rapidly vanishing with the early light.
These lips, so red, fading pink,
cannot hold you for long.
I do not understand how I could fall in love
with the likes of you.
So vain, ultimately shallow.
Full of pretty words so long as I am full of
youthful comeliness.
My unlined skin your fingers travel.
Neck to navel, lips to breasts.
Someday the bloom of this rose will wither.
The soft skin wrinkling,
like the sheets we rose from this very morn.
And then you will be gone.
Silent as a ghost,
haunting me no more.
Searching for the next budding flower,
to suit your superficial soul.

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