Round of twin *******,
Circle thighs, hips, moon bottoms,
The round of my palms.

Music I heard with you was more than music,
And bread I broke with you was more than bread;
Now that I am without you, all is desolate;
All that was once so beautiful is dead.

Your hands once touched this table and this silver,
And I have seen your fingers hold this glass.
These things do not remember you, beloved,--
And yet your touch upon them will not pass.

For it was in my heart you moved among them,
And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes;
And in my heart they will remember always,--
They knew you once, O beautiful and wise.

I still see her quivering lips,
as she curls her back in staggered breaths , her clenching fists, tangled in my hair, as she exhales in a weakened stare.

I still see her shadow rise and fall, upon the words of dim lit walls, as she tenderly states my name and rests, faintly upon my chest.

Caressing her back in feathered finesse, a love was born, but never addressed.

Now the words are sealed in wax, and placed upon her epitaph.

I still feel her.