Morendo

I can see the sun dying away in
massive colours glazing over and pumping out the
remembrance of redundant yesterdays,
the crest and retreat of oceans alive, forgotten,
balanced, and sometimes failed, pulled through the
thin film of their
past, erased.

And I recognize this-
your sleeping,
faint hums, breathing softly,
your inflated breast rising, 
falling, and I think that you dream of wrinkles
on the matrix of our old oceans,
of time pressed and crevassed like a diamond uncut-
In our fiery flanks-
we were awake.
My skin was softened into you -the air so velvety-
And it was a sultry, wrenched feeling.

Distilled scents of coffee and tiramisu and french bread still warm. 
Tasted like warm milk, and honey, and all that
summernight ether and stars
suspended like raisens in plum pudding.

And out of this we were innocents blinded; raw; dazed;
I functioned mechanical under amorous pulls of need,
greed in your domain, slowly fevering the
malignancies of longing.

And your breathing fuels sunsets.   I swear it does.

With you, time's inconsistencies settle to filter out the
dissonance of our retarded cadence, but the wind
against the window panes calms leathered, pulsing hearts entertwined.

Caroline Seagle's Questions:

1.) Is the imagery in the first  and third stanzas successful? And can you see the sunset, as well as the experience described later, "dying away"?

2.) Are the transitions smooth?

3.) Is the poem too flowery or compact?

4.) Any other comments are greatly appreciated, thank you.