Loving Still


It seems like
every intricate detail
of our last conversation should be
etched—
no, chiseled—
in my soul.
But when I close my eyes,
I can’t even picture your face,
and it hasn’t been that
long since …
When I was young,
I ran to hug the
graham-cracker, strawberry-jam,
grandmother-scented you.
As I’d close my eyes,
how comforting to feel
the love-peck
on my delicate cheek,
and it must have been,
as I’d run off
to play in your flowers.
It seems like
I should have hugged you
longer.
And when I close my eyes,
all I can feel
are gentle tears
warming my face.
Or is it you?
Loving still.