This is the Last of It

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.

Copyright © 2013, Matthew West
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