Smooth scars, translucent moles,
foam-warm lips, sandpaper jaw, silken skin,
hands on your chest feeling as though
I were digging warm wet sand for treasures.
Your voice, at once my memory
and the making of it.
Your eyes, like bubbles from hay straw,
lighting up the evening,
piercing through my being
and landing gently
on some side of my heart
that's turned away from the sun.
I miss you,
but in all these textured memories,
my man is next to me holding my fist
in his perfect-fit palm.
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