At the end of the day all we have is memories

The warmth of summer love

I wanted to ignite his eyes
and to trail butterfly kisses
upon his warm neck
To smell Jasmine again, again;
every summer morning—
Violets and Lily's to adorn
my old vases
For beds to be properly used
and for books to scatter around
our feet as displaced petals
But mostly, I wanted poetry—
his, to be whispered in my ear
with the intent that I might
consider them mine, always