The swelling pinholes in your blue–black quilt
reminds me of the times spent making forts.
Binding and building with pillow made stilts
we guarded our bastion from vile hordes.
The musk still smells like your cherry candy scent
that clung to you those summer days dreaming.
Sweet and thick like syrup given to the sick
but fading due to the stench of aging.
Like the gaps that riddle your favorite cloth
the holes in my memory grow larger.
As if time were feasting like a starving moth
while the moments between us spread farther.
Your face is lost beneath these tattered sheets
our bastion collapsed in silent defeat.