Just the taste of your skin, 
like steam rising from a raging river,
it's a heart helplessly on fire,
the sound of a star roaring 
through a still night sky.

Whatever passes through here,
I can promise this,
you have woven all 
seasons into me.

Your delicate fingers once drew 
maps in all possible directions.

The image of such a touch alone 
is more immediate and visceral 
than any poetry we can write.

It's what I keep with me now,
a lone fingertip hushing my lips 
to keep me from spilling, 
a gift I can hold on to
in place of what can 
no longer be given.

Something passed through me then, 
the tracks that we made signaled 
a code unbroken and held 
where I cannot let go.

It's such an ordinary, human thing, 
to feel such a crushing loss.

Just the scent of your hair and skin, 
floral fields and warm coconut trees, 
perfume rising from open ambrosia, 
it's the heart helplessly on fire, 
the sound of a star roaring 
through my dark skies.

Whatever passes through there,
I can promise this, 
you have woven all
worlds into me.

Your delicate lips grazed every map
that was once a cold valley in me.

The image of such a touch alone 
imparts something more tender and visceral 
than any tongue can attempt to shape.

It's what I carry with me now, 
the initially tentative meeting of lips, 
so softly joining and pressing 
to keep me from spilling, 
a gift I can still taste now in place 
of what can no longer be given, 
of what was so suddenly taken away. 

Something passed through me then, 
the marks we made signaled 
a code I once broke, 
clasped to where I cannot let go.

Just a taste of all you are
is more immediate and visceral 
than any poem I will ever write.

It's what I always hold now.

It's such an ordinary, human thing, 
to feel such an incalculable loss.