There is the sound
of her voice
first thing in the morning
whispered and heavy
There are her scents
sweet, or tart
depending on her mood
Of course there is her movement
steps down the stairs, slower than necessary
because she wants it to last
But mostly, it is her touch,
her fingertips
on my arm,
on my chest
tracing my lips ...
It is her touch that devastates me,
always.