The Ghost of Perfection…

Body of shame.
It haunts in tatters.
All this grief smites all that matters,
’til there’s no one left to blame.
It has the fading scars
of good ol’ times
plastered
like old paint:
Tattoos of radiant beach sunsets;
forgotten “beneath” the shore
of its memories
like that first page
under a mountain of print-outs.

Ethereal grasp
never touching a thing,
yet finding itself
touched
by desire.

Where goes the time?
Past yet to come.
It’s broken scales that balance wine,
yet it’s sober to passion’s drum.

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