Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

They asked me how I knew, your true love was true,
then I realised . . . . . . the ceiling was yellow blue;
they painted it away, all was pristine on the day,
untouched, like the skin of Christine so they say.

We went outside for fresh air, alfresco laid bare,
the remains of beauty lapped with colours of your hair;
spoke about many things, how love became transient,
sunshine in your smile, which had been there all the while.

Did you know that they spoke about you and ormolu,
more than alloy but all the wonderful things you could do;
we tossed our heads, looking at flowers with greens and reds,
whilst shadows criss crossed over red lips, 'y's and zeds.

The alphabet was there, the time really had no matter,
like the song, everything was served, everlasting platter,