I like to forget that you exist, but I only know this joy when you are remembered and the joy no longer lasts.

A pleasure known with hindsight, a pleasure that will always last the memory of touch and skin and the kiss of corduroy linger. But memory fades like colour from a shirt left in the arid sun too many hours enjoyed under its earnest attention.

All that is left is scorched, I remember cloudless days clad against pressed velvet blue, now a scorched grey. melancholy is colourless, you remain in my cupboard floating in the dark, I cannot throw you away.

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