In Remembrance of Love

 

I want to hold you close
but I cannot see the color of your hair.

Is it black like
Mary Poppins
or blond, the same as your
cream colored inner thighs?

I want to hold you in my arms
but I cannot remember your touch.

Were you firm like a ballet dancer,
my arm around your waist
as you moved with me
as we learned to dance
in precise
little
turning
motions?

Or were you
soft and safe
like sinking into
warm darkness,
comfortable like
falling
asleep?

You are an amalgam of all that I am
or was
so how can I possibly love
you?

Since I can’t love me?

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