Of course, I remember;
it is impossible to forget.
It clings to me even as you leave,
the warmth of the
sun,
the soft linen,
the touch of flesh,
a tender landscape
over which my fingers wander.
You don’t forget
when you know
you’ll never get
back there again.
The sweet scene exuded,
yours, mine, even the
room,
all catching fire
with each heated breath,
the rise and fall,
the in and out,
the ever-lasting
exasperation of that last gasp.
Of course, I remember.
Even if I wanted to forget,
it is here,
stuck inside me
like a wishbone in my
throat,
poking me with
each wrong move,
an ache that is more
than an ache.
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