Archives of the Self

I have a chalkful of vaporous forms
drawn out of the empty glass of wine
but I cannot make you see
what I chose to write on the waters and the wintry winds.
I have long forgotten how the gravity pulls ,
and here, the vacuum denies a space for me
in the world  of synonyms
for utterances drawn in the antique sorrow
of having failed
before the amnesia of language
that set in and destroyed the  archives of my primitive self;
that self which loved in the innocence of dawn
and lost in the graying of the dusk.