Bette Davis

Remember the night
your kitchen became
our theater?
When the spotlight
beamed down on us,
Redding blue echoes
these arms of mine.
Like an alcoholic
resisting drink-
and growing weaker
with every breath
of your hair.
The memory
sickens the soul-
these moments-
and others-
though beautiful,
are hacked up
and amputated
because of gangrene.
Like waves
these infectious
reminders of the dark
dwindle in time
giving-in to blissfulness
and heartache,
only to return
perfectly timed
without forgiveness.