wash traces of you
from the ink-stained pages i dressed up
as hallowed ground.
(your memory is subject to
my moods and machinations.)
and every now and then,
i remember everything
and it takes nothing
more than a glitch in my system
(death to linear time)
and i am young and old and
in-between.
and beneath my fingernails
is the dirt of the excess,
the particles that are
fossils and figments and factual.
whether i am here, there or anywhere,
i can conjure you every time.