It is not the forgotten past, of our limbs entwined,
It is not orificed promises of bodies, spent
& supine,
It is not the sensations tingling or lips sweet
licked,
It is not orgasmic delight or my breasts sweat
slicked.
It is in the tucking of stray curl behind my
ear,
It is in the gentle wiping away of my sad tear,
It is in that kiss you dropped upon my cheek,
It is your breath upon my neck that left me
weak.
Hot passion aflame, lasted but such a little
while,
It´s the holding of hands, to walk the extra
mile,
It is the tender look, pain shared & kind
soft words,
Dancing under raindrops & reading poetry
of birds.
It´s the memory of perfumes & soft silver
night´s dreams,
It is the promises made under midnight´s moonbeams,
It is your moss covered tombstone kissed with
the dew,
It´s within the missing of romance, that I miss
most of you.
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