Bluff

I wanted to be a pilgrim.
My road would intertwine with yours
like our hair, that day.
I remember you moving to the window,
the cloud that looked like
your eyelashes as you butterflied them over my cheek.
Now the butterfly steps
are deep ruts on my barren face;
arid, dead.
Your voice, like honey
now depresses my shoulders with its
thick. treacle. texture.
I fold, darling.
The Bluff is too convoluted
and I can't remember what I'd bet.