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