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.