This is the last of it;
a cocktail dress you wore in Paris
the night we struck a match,
toasted our contract with cognac.
We were embroidery,
a tapestry of oaths and sweat
that stained those bedsheets wet.
Later, you lit a cigarette,
smoke uncoiling from fingertips
joining sunshine at play in your hair.
Now, the flare has gone.
Your dress lies on the floor
like a broken promise
infusing the air with sulphur.
Elemental Dialogues 