that divides reality from imagination. How long
did my hand linger in the delicate small
of your back? How deep was the green
in your eyes the first time you let me
see them all the way through? Is everything
as soft as I remember everything being?
Did the cinnamon of your breath really mix
with the hunger of my mouth upon yours? You are
a haunt to me, a fading gray of unremembering.
Eunoia Review - November 2014