When it comes to the loves who have stuck
the ones who still, at some point, rise up
in quiet moments to grab my attention
it is not the curves nor the curls
the whispy voices or the backs arched
in a passionate embrace, not even the taste
but the room and the building, the town, time
that pulls me back, this love of location
and era that keeps alive my errors.
I would love to say I’m panting
at the memory of you, but I’m staring
instead at these walls of memory, painting.