fresh memories washing by,
breezy and muddled,
scattering fumbled images on rolls of film.
Head slightly sore
but only from those many snatched breaths
taken in severed gasps of passion.
Starved of reliable oxygen
lungs can pump only rhythmical throbs of adrenalin.
My legs are weak,
strangely loose at the knee, oiled and unscrewed.
My skin is smooth where you touched it.
The fragrance of your neck still breathes within my nostrils.
I can feel grains of make-up dusted around my mouth,
a thin layer of paint from your canvas trusted to me.
You lost me somewhere in your eyes
and scarcely could I close my own
even to kiss,
such a portrait did you seem.