The Silver-Tray

Lay me on what used to be
our silver-tray
I imagine your fingerprints
in the dust
on the night-stand
in lust
you always put your hand
my heart starts to sprint
while my fingers try to clutch
what might be one last strand
of your pretty hair
I guess that´s not much
this last gift so fair
not as much
as it used to be
in beauty and despair
now why is my heart so cold
so unmoved
what is this I can´t see
why not hate and love or
love and hate
why this indifference that grows
why so late in this weariness
it comes and shows
I used to look at the scratch-marks
on my back
the only thing that glows
is the warmth I carry
in my hands for you
but I´ll see
that the wind will end
and blow away
all memory