In the black of night
I walk alone
except for the glorious memories
of you,
of us,
being poured into my mind through a pitcher
and overfilling,
and droplets of memory sliding down my cheek,
and arm,
down to my hand,
which I hold beside me
and curve my fingers inwards
as if it were holding yours;
I can feel your little fingers
in between mine
and I smile
but I dare not look to my side
for fear of my dream
being discovered as untrue.