Bondage, to the rivers that bind

Fis­sures in the memory-eraser they call
time.
Seep­ing in, not quite sepia but desat­u­rated,
grey.
I hear soft laughs, left stage right.

Nails — vivid, crimson;
Mas­cara — bright white.

Waft­ing wisps of fond­ness twin­kling
in time
with fairy lights point­ing out lawns in cities
that when viewed from high above through gaps in mar­ble slats lin­ing par­tially quar­ried hills
sel­dom speak back.

Except in the dead of night.