Remember that evening
made of raspberries,
so much deep pink and ripe flesh,
we thought the air was wounded?
How we exhausted our bodies
carrying cups of Cabernet
across the bed, as our eyes
took snapshots of the mirror…
Later that night we used your
lipstick to paint stars across the mirror.
I saw your image arc towards
the sky before the supernova
fused the surface.
Here we are beneath the quicksilver.
Light years later, hotel maids still
attempt to wipe our bodies from the glass.
DQ 9/12/08
