Molten dark cocoa in its wide spread.
Did she taste her ashen bled?
Now her framed skull is a memoir
and my liquid eyes dropping from their lips.
Steady strokes of memories up and down
an endured pole.
The flight from her to the milky way
with halts at her born, gone and newborn.
Me on my chair.
The baby in its cradle behind, trying to decode
my threaded ecstasy.
It sees in me, its own naked hop.
It smiles, She was never gone.
Her real just became distinct in my surreal.
Cocoa remains and is,
its own repeated obscure.