Betrayal of Mnemosyne

That face the same,
hair hidden well
under a warm hat
slightly graying.

A glance at you

Just close enough
to smell your skin.
You stand still.

Those hands the same,
long fingers that
with cunning skill
twined promises
as precious souvenirs
into my dream.

You gently tower over me,
and I ready to rest
under your feet,
reach out to hold you.

Eyeing me
without depth of recognition,
you ask to tell you
who I am.

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