Sestina Exercise, Unedited

Sepia-tones seeped into our lives like mud;
fresh flower decompose softly into its brown hearth,
wet from our tears and salty like the cookies
you once baked, for our anniversary - remember?
I almost choked on the chips, black knobs
harder than your nipples, chilled beneath my fingers.

Your mouth was warm and wet on my fingers,
as our boots tramped through the mud.
Afterwards, we drank tea in a kitchen with iron door-knobs.
Your hair smelled of New England as we wrapped around each other by the hearth,
and I promised myself I would always remember.
But the images faded; I savor the crumbs, but the cookies

have been eaten by summer spats and late nights at the office. Damn the cookies!
I want the willows of your hair in between my fingers,
the press of your lips on my cheek whispering, "Remember? Remember?"
I could fade into the mud,
to ashes sleeping in the hearth,
never to feel the pleasure of iron door-knobs.

But instead I must remember
the feel of the knobs
of your breasts, our feet squelched with mud,
the saltiness of your cookies,
the lace patterns of our fingers,
holding each other by the hearth.

I dreamt last night of your body by the hearth;
marble thighs and a silver whisper, "Remember? Remember?",
and I was burrowing my lips into the beauty of your fingers,
my fingers felt for your breasts' knobs,
and I was going to eat them like cookies,
but when my tongue licked, you turned into mud,

wet, brown mud
that smoldered of shit like a half-kindled hearth. Worse than the salt-cookies
I remember. My fingers froze in the mud of your body;lips sealed to your nipple-knobs.

I am still trying to decide if this was a nightmare, or a dream of paradise.