Crumbling

I miss the mornings.

The moment when I would find you there,

still with me after the night's destructiveness,

dressed in a complete absence of fabric.

Recently, the fragile memories crumble.

I try to recall them,

but they are shards of clarity.

My thoughts of you at moments still catch the light,

but their randomness grows,

and I have tired of their archaic brilliance.

Memories once savoured,

are now poisoned, bitter.

A sweet dessert, sprinkled with salt.