Drifting past the memories, touching with fingertips only
and the scent on your cheek in the rain, that gently falling rain.

How could that have been, way back then before life hatched it's ugliness.

How could we have stumbled into that verdant glade of young love where each moment was a new creation, each sensation a shattering revelation of discovery.

Each memory a chrysalis of aching, yearning, recall.

Far, far too intense to last.

M.
1968
Melbourne