Flesh Has No Memory

I can no longer feel
 you in my arms, small
 and strong and hollow.
Or your soft,
 unknowing fingertips
 that teased out
 the secrets of my body.
Or the rhythm
 of your humming bird heart,
 so desperate, so hungry,
 so innocent.
We were one,
 in a moment, somewhere
 in that little room,
 our sanctuary from heaven.
But that has passed.
 And these memories
 can’t recall your feel,
 you tenative tenderness.
Flesh has no memory
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