  If memory flickers down, dullish, and dies; if all that's left is charcoal, dust, and ash except that last but brightly glowing coal, I'll place in on my tongue - savour the heat. It scalds to understand the pungent loss mixed in its grit with failure and decline. An Icaritic history defies my thought. Defies the knowledge of the crash, or how it came to pass; but he who stole the memory left a mantra to repeat: for when this fades, I'll pass in flame and dross, the pyre of a night when you were mine. A supernova. One final reply, to grass, to love, your kiss, your laquered sky. 
