Preservation

Faces fade while other details stay intact,
like an ancient ship perfectly preserved
deep within the sea,
there is the shape of a hand,
the scent of a neck
the gauge of the light catching on the edges
of eyelashes.

All romantics are born into the same misery,
the same unquellable tide bearing
unwanted pieces
of conversations
lips and mouths
and a heady erotica superimposed on the pedestrian.

Searching out the merciful oblivion
of wide open gazes forgotten
and visions and revisions never started
is like praying
to a desolated alter
and calling it king.