Writing In The Sand

There was a time, once
when you left your door unlocked
and I stole in after 8 o'clock running
and snuck under the covers next to you,
my fingers still frigid from the frosty morning.
"Mm cold," you complained when I reached beneath your shirt,
to hold your heaterlike body to mine,
the smooth skin of your breasts marred
by a mess of goosebumps I'd made.
It was a perfect moment,
stolen from the resolution of a romantic comedy,
meant to be savored.
Moments like those don't come often,
moments in which life outlines its poetical tendencies,
and they go too easily.
There's no film to rewind, no page to revisit
until with analysis the bloom can be gleaned from the plant.
For you see, the bloom fades.
Life is no photograph
and memory, I think, no engraven stone
but more a sandy beach with everlasting waves.
So much of you and I has washed away!
This small seashell, a conch or welk,
whirling around itself like we were then,
is the best piece I have left.
It sounds in my ear of breath, of heartpulse,
of "mm cold,"
and I wonder if you have any sand dollars saved,
or if you spent them all on movie rentals
and museum visits.