Left a chalk self-portrait on her mattressnThen cleansed my skin in the rainnThe streetlamps and lobbies just listennMust be the moonlight that beckons again and againnnCalendar countdowns and train station shiftsnWhite sheets lay under the true candidatenConfession in murmurs and indisposed sighsnTruth's in the once-blue, now graying eyesnnBindings and bookmarks soiled in the printsnOf covetous fingers dipped in black inknThe authors are harlots citing their shamenAs the reason for tossing their works in the flamesnnA guardian's ghost framed in the panenUnder rustling of satin, intervention in vainnWith the pretext of speakers and lavender lightsnA selfish duet crescendos in timennEarly April showers and mahogany hair curlsnDraw crimson from under the skinnThe band-aids and bracelets just maskingnThe sole thing that ever touched her withinnnIn the darkest of backyards, on sanitized grassnThe nurse lays aside her own ailing pastnReception in silence, culmination in gagsnWith awkward young smiles, this walk is our last