He is an echo of my desire.
The moon reflected in a silver bowl.
A mantle of the finest mink
That slithers over the skin; and
Evokes memories of a touch long gone.

He is a cool breeze in November.
A drop of lemon on the tongue.
He is the taste of quiet pleasure,
circled in the scent of roasted coffee,
To be drowned by the high notes
of a fine whiskey.

He is the wilted rose that scent lingers on.
The dead petals in a basin,
Swirling lightly with my breath.
He is the locke of hair kept safe
In a scrapbook of dying memory
Yellowed by time.

He is a lover lost,
And in the losing
Grows sweeter still.