Sometimes you get so close
you can almost feel the buzz
Your fingers begin to tingle
anticipating that electric touch
of flesh on flesh –
of moist heat, cold feet
tangled sheets and
abandoned mornings

Sometimes you get so close
you can almost see the point
Your eyes begin to fill
with quite unwanted tears
as your mind plays tricks
throws you reminders
scratched and faded moments
when you laughed at the camera
splashed in the perfect ocean
ran across the everlasting sand
and never grew old

Sometimes you get so close
you can almost taste the tears
Your lips begin to tremble
desperate for that longed-for kiss
that came and became
just the beginning of the end
(You’ve got her photo somewhere
in a box, clipped to the letter
that told you she was dead,
or missing
or just gone with someone else
But you remember the tang
of her often salty skin)

Sometimes you get so close
you can almost hear the echoes
Your tape begins to run
slipping through your fingers –
children’s laughter
mother, father, praising, scolding
sixties singles
her voice, doors opening
the roar of the ocean

Sometimes you get so close
you can almost catch that special smell
that takes you back to when
the sun shone and made no cancer
when cigarettes were shared
and history was so much dust
when you and I were us

Sometimes you get so close
you can almost believe
it might happen again

© David Hermelin 2016