On Feasting on the Years

Sitting at the corner table in the bistro,
everything around you in hazy relief,
auburn hair pooled around your delicate shoulders
in lazy waves lapping across your naked neck,
I cannot recall the taste of the bread or meat
or the sensation of the red wine sliding down,
but I remember devouring the moment —
engorged on my young lust and younger love for you.

Nothing else mattered in those gravid, timeless days,
the world populated by us and your red lips
plump as the breasts behind your tawny curls,
nourishing me more than the food between us.

Now your argent hair lays in tired recess,
winding down your weathered nape,
worldly fingers taming it behind your ear,
breasts falling behind your untouched plate,
we have more than feasted on the years.

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