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.