under your breath
with all my books, my dead poets, my romantic endings
wide open.
dripping from your lips
promises in silk yves saint laurent lingerie
the walls are melting
and all the painted saints
of an impossible me
laying
scorched like the moody jazz
like your thirsty moans
especially the jazz played in the night at this club called "Abat-Jour"
we used to love
we are
used
to love