Maputo Revisited

There remain days
when I miss
your dark fountain of hair
the caramel skin
and glistening lips.

Nights when I long
for portugese
whispers
in the darkness
as you press close to me.

Hours of bleakness
at the absence of your laughter
and the juvenile sarcasm
which toward the end
turned to scorn.

We were wrong for one another
but there are moments when
a word or thought or memory
stirs the dying embers
of my love for you.