Deep and dense,
like a deep dense forest in one of my forgotten dreams,
your voice calls me in a language that
I do not know.
I struggle to understand what you mean as
our lips and our fingers and our eyes meet.
Fever is sweet.
I try to recall that moment of love
but I remember nothing now.
Love never lingers for long, nor passion.
I often think how your voice used to sound, your stress on certain words,
but everything is vague.
I remember your colours often but everything is slippery like life itself.
What forgiveness now if I cannot remember clearly how your
eyes would colour at the threat of my touch?