Tracing Us

With my fingertips I trace a line in the air, where you have been standing, smiling, straddling your left arm with your right. Braided golden hair, thick like summer bread. Lips fresh as a cool mountain stream. Hips curving, moving — oh so ever slowly — a desert dune. With my fingertips, I trace each memory we ever shared. The small, the great, the vivid ones. The melodramatic, the sentimental, the recollected, forgotten ones. I trace, and I trace, so as not to forget — there once was a you, there once was a me.