The one with the maelstrom

Let's recap
because I forget where we are.
Right now, are we drowning in despair
or simply resigned to sadness?
Are we pissed-off at the past
or looking to the future?

The fog between us is thickening
like ice on a window; I can't see clearly.
Maybe it's not the window.
Maybe you and I are shifting in the air
as dandelion heads blow this way and that.
The way déjà vu feels just out of reach
or hot air makes a jet engine quiver.

Sometimes I'm still some giddy balloon
because you are mine and I yours
and I wonder if love's the same when you're old.
Like, wrinkly and grey. Do you still walk taller?
Laugh more easily? Forget about death?

Other times I see you as incense dispersing
without even your scent to remember.
I'll imagine a hint on occasion
and have love flood back to me,
making any surrounding seem dull
and anyone present a dullard.

I have original thoughts all the time
of your perfume and orgasms.
Or of how I might fold and stitch
the fabric of space-time, knit us together
into a blissful woolly jumper of delight
with shoulder detail of stars and kisses.

I need to hear your voice to remember
what it was that made me better.
But I could not bear to disappoint you.
And I forget just where we are.
I forget where we are.