My Broken Picasso

I remember you in pieces,

my broken Picasso,

slanted like the sun,

that slips right past

silk curtains.

Do you remember –

the drive back

from Paris was quick – the two of us

en route to Madrid,

or was it the ruins of Greece?

From somewhere we hopped a jet into this

new world,

flung our bags onto

this grass

where velvet roses

close by day

only opening to stars,

softly swaying to the moon.

The tide turns back

and we exist as in a dream,

tossed on waves

rippling past rocks

searching for land.

It never stops.

We keep a rhythm

that moves, the memories

crackle

on replay –

they circle

and sputter

and spin.

Tricia Sankey

Posted in Uncategorized, WritingTagged love, poetry