Fading

It's been but days.
Yet your form, familiar,
oft traced beloved
beneath adoring fingertips,
has seeped its amber colours
from within.

Your eyes - tiger hazel,
yes I know - but as fact,
not molten penetration,
laser sharp,
soul piercing deep.

Your hands - I see them,
remember the rough
yet soft touch.
I yearn, ache for sandpaper,
for tender wounding
of brusque, bruising pain.
Yet feel no heat,
no searing pressure,
only memory of cruel caress.

Your scent - hint of spices
and sweat in sweltering summer rain.
Now escapes feeble entreaties,
plaintiff cry of dull recall.
I felt I knew,
I thought for sure,
straining belief that it enthralled.

Your voice - biting,
endearing lilt,
smallish, sweetish, loving lisp;
Killer gap
between front milk teeth
that nipped, nibbled,
stung my lips.

Now you are but echo
of forgotten twilights,
dimmered sense of brushing limbs,
bumping gentle in our rhythms.
Face fast faded,
Love lorn, receded,
slipped in memories
as worrisome dreams of loss.