I press you in my book

and flip the pages back

and forth, I know even if you stay

your sweetness will soon fade.

You will fade like sand, like waves,

like sugar into tea.

But for now, I've held you in pages,

your fallen brothers

incensed with the oils of you. 

And I can taste "time when".

I can taste gold flecked with black,

a bitter pan fry.

He once said I was marble.

But how different you are

from a scratch in marble

Your trace is gone before you are.