When we close our eyes
And must rely on
Other senses
And our memory
Of what we saw
If it is still there,
Touching the surface
To feel if it still
Feels warm or soft
And does it still vibrate,
Does it taste
As good as I recall,
When my eyes
Still deceived me.
Does she smell as sweet
Or is she so
Out of reach
We can’t feel
Or smell or taste
What we once did,
And linger in that
Surrealistic landscape
Of an untrustworthy
Memory,
Of touching
And being touched,
Of loving
And being loved
No comments:
Post a Comment