This Very Minute.

We discoursed of authors,
that hardly ever made sense.
and I noticed she shared,
an uncanny resemblance
with the gloom that resonated,
through the raining splinter.
and the melancholy prevailed,
through an aching winter.
Now that I write her down,
after reading those books she told.
and the last time I felt her,
seems a hundred summers old.
Well etched, I trace her face through
these pained distressed eyes.
as notions are all I have left
of you, my inamorata in guise.