I can only bow my head at the memory, the scenery fading me.
I can’t pull it back in place, rewind that one traced finger.
The one we held tip to tip, just before you slipped away.
The footprint, the scent and the lost tomorrow.
My stare gets lost inside the clamor, ensnared and damaged.
Frozen in warm skin, I can’t manage this spiking storm.
So here it stands, an empty hand stained in forced composure.
I can only bow my head at the memory, a whisper and sigh.