Originally published here
(Broken link in post below)
I remember you in pieces,
my broken Picasso,
slanted like the sun,
that slips right past
silk curtains.
Do you remember –
the drive back
from Paris was quick – the two of us
en route to Madrid,
or was it the ruins of Greece?
From somewhere we hopped a jet into this
new world,
flung our bags onto
this grass
where velvet roses
close by day
only opening to stars,
softly swaying to the moon.
The tide turns back
and we exist as in a dream,
tossed on waves
rippling past rocks
searching for land.
It never stops.
We keep a rhythm
that moves, the memories
crackle
on replay –
they circle
and sputter
and spin.
Tricia Sankey 
A pleasure to read.
Thanks!