Nostalgia

Here are the little things that touch my soul;
a letter from a good friend,
a heart shaped stone polished to a glassy glow,
whispers in the wind.

Here is the street corner where we spoke
on a windy fall day,
when your eyes spoke to me of music,
of laughter and tears, of touches yet received.

Here is the sweater you wore, black now faded to grey.
Holding it in my hands, I can still see it draping your graceful
frame,
see the way it lies in my hands as if still waiting for you.

I am.

Here are the memories I hold dear;
the scent of my newborn brother,
fall leaves lazily drifting to the ground,
the first time lips touch lips tenderly, gently, lovingly.

My body aches to be held again, with hands that
love, hands that know the softness of skin,
hands that memorize each slope and curve and
trace them as if they were the only curves touched

in the history of hands touching.