I stood in jeans waiting
for you to arrive,
        fingertips running
        through hair, body seeking
the right position against the wall.

        You walked in like the sun,
a rhythm I had waited years
to feel in the curve of my spine.

        but your eyes, Christ,
they left me
stumbling like an actor
        for the right words.

The days seemed to go on forever.
we made love like Neruda;
flesh becoming warm, the evening,
or the memory of rainfall.
And sometimes when you stroked
my cheek,
        I felt the future
            in your touch.

I can still sense your presence here,
like the summered sun that rests
along the path,
still taste those days
as I glide my hands over the scent
        you left behind.



©2006 by Cherilyn Ferroggiaro