What remains is silence

I remember your hand in mine, full and soft, clutched, hidden , and you, surprised, lingering around a conversation of no interest, just to stay and hold, to feel the warm moisture of palms, wrapped fingers; the fullness of you.

I remember your mouth, lips deep red, fresh and full like dew on morning flowers, honey delivered by a probing, teasing tongue, then a kiss, a kiss, a lingering, then a kiss again, a smile; then touch and taste.

I remember your voice, whispering and inviting; full and willing.

That is how you gave yourself to me.

I remember your eyes, once open and full, accepting, then small and hard, your face wrinkling from love to uncertainty; take me, you had said, and wondered; take me, you said, and stood puzzled when I did not.

Then parted, each stunned, confused.

What remains is silence.

About michaelstephendaigle

I have been writing most of my life. I have written at least three complete novels, have three others started and on my website michaelstephendaigle.com is the draft chapter of the latest effort,"The Swamps of Jersey."
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