Sepia.

You have fragments of sepia,
in your check-shirt pocket -
that green shirt that smells of candle-light.
You have music on your lips,
sepia-washed words,
with a sepia melody, cascading in between.
A sepia dream in your burnt-brown eyes,
and a sepia moment that shrouds
my running around in circles,
not kissing bubbles to make them stay,
waiting for them to take shape.
You wait for me, pensively,
near lakes, where lovers meet, clandestinely.
You take sepia pictures of the water,
of sepia-reflections,
of skyscrapers gnawing away into the
sepia-sky.
On sepia mornings like these,
you see the old peoples' laughing clubs,
and remember all the times you've laughed
without reason.
Silly meaningless laughter.
You stare at the sun,
the lousy sunshine breathing down your face,
it paints sepia-pictures on your dusky skin.
Your shadow follows you into the sepia darkness.
The sepia plays amicus curie today, it always did,
on odd spring mornings like these.
Sepia entwines us together,
just you and me,
in smoky circles,
in puffs of cigarette smoke,
round and round,
in circles, in beautiful sepia circles.