I try to mimic the touches that you've made,
here when I’m alone
but I can’t seem to trace the slow
slow
trails,
the ripples
the shivers,
the heat
that you've garnished over my skin,
the feel of your finger tips
sliding along the seams of my sweater,
riding along the ridges of my spine
down and round the valleys of my senses.

I try to mimic the touches that you've made
alas, when I’m alone
my timing is always
slightly off,
your touches feel like a stranger's,
never quite right.
And those carefully carved moments
the order of movements
of walking through the door
to familiar ground,
and laughter
with a twist of lime,
a kiss
and release,
timing that sigh of relief
settling down into the confines of our choices
starting a scene that always seems
to end in a dream sequence in my mind
realizing that it abruptly begins,
and painfully ends in time.