I smell the presence of you strong,
even though your scent is long gone,
and the ashes are settled and the day
has dissolved to the evening void.

For in the silence of days end there lies
the shadows in which you come to me
as whisper in the breeze and movement
of the trees against the silhouetted sky.

I sense your touch on my skin lucid from
a lover’s hand that stretches invisible
from beyond to make connection that seems so
real and yet is memory’s sordid trick of soul deceit.

Then at morning’s windowed light your soul takes
flight from the evening and the night of longing play,
and your touch is no more and your scent fades far away
and I wait, how I wait, for evening’s dark.