I can almost remember
the exact force you
used to kiss me when
no one was looking;
when on foot, they
nearly knocked me over,
and when in bed, I
sometimes savored breaks.

I can almost remember
the exact pattern of hair
behind your neck, escaping
below rumpled fabric and
near body parts I would
have used my mouth to
make love to, had folks
turned away more often.

I can almost remember
the exact volume you
spoke in when we
leaned in too close, your
lips fondling my earlobe
and verbalizing
just what I had hoped
you might do to me later.

I can almost remember
the exact length of your
eyelashes that extended to
catch tears you cried for me;
my thumbs were not always
swift enough to form half-moons
under the almond orbs through
which you watched me depart.