Just when my unmeant imagination thought it safe, just when I thought I'd learned - to forget to remember the suntanned symmetry of you; I happened upon a tragical trace of a scent of past perfume - a sickening sweet, redolent relic, of almost - always past, left upon a pillow on the unmade bed where once we laid and dreamt and shuddered. Just that one slippery, apple-green breath of delicate was stole truth from time and past from fate. So long it seems - an age ago, maybe even longer, so hard to tell these days - harder still to tell these days from dreams - dreams of together - perfect and peculiar us.