Mnemophobia.

Autumn of 2008.

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A trace of autumn was in your gaze
all it took was silence
shhh -
let the leaves speak.

I was wearing purple,
and my lips were gray

you asked me if it was the end of the world
not for you, no

and the butterflies morphed to chainsaws
they flutter and they carve too

I was your pulse,
remain a slovenly ragdoll

and my nails are no longer pink
but red.

don’t stroke my neck,
don’t autograph my hipbone
don’t scratch my bare back

more chocolate
to despatch those memories

yet I know they will not fade
but cling on like blueberry soup
on a brand new dress.