Your scent escapes me.
I am finally at rest with the notion
that you will continue to fade
from all of my senses.
Will my fingers forget you, too?
How they used to behold
the roughness of your face,
the softness of your lips.
Yet you were not as tender as I thought;
years were held with hopeful pretense.
That my body will not forget,
used for a purpose that was not love.
There I was, your momentary delight.
Reaching out to feel anything
other than sinking into a comforter
as just another object.
YOU ARE READING
Sitting Here Thinking (2020-2022)
PoetryPoetry of varying subjects and construction, the second of three. Written while sitting anywhere, lost in thought about everything and anything. Accolades: #1 Thought Provoking 2/26/2020 #1 Self-Reflection 3/22/2020 #1 Creative Writing 7/24/2020 #3...
