In the attic hangs a dress

her perfume lingers in the air,

her dried bouquet

coloured slightly grey

sits beside accessories there.

 

There is a memory still

of a night in Amsterdam,

when we both were wet

and her sylphe sillouette

closely cradled within my arm.

 

Rain stained ~ satin slippers

and the glisten of her evening pouch,

rekindle the sparkle of she

when she was with me

as an old man in an attic, I slouch.

 

 

---

 

an another which just popped into my head

 

 

I look at the dress,

"Am I too old?"

straps to display

well laden shoulders

topped by a mop of grey hair.

There was a day once

when I could fill such style,

I would smile

and conquest

but now ~ is the confidence there?