Memories form at the end of cold fingers,
Skin on skin, but not the same.
Where eyes once looked up defiant at heaven,
Below in retrospect, they now creep.
This is not how it was supposed to be.
This is not what he promised.
Being touched on the skin is as nothing
To being touched on the heart.
She pauses. She thinks.
The tears won’t lubricate her skin,
But their tactile passing is a reassure.
Tears won’t wash away the pain
But they will clear the view.