J. Holley Watts

TOUCH

My fingers touch your face
to trace the echoes of laughter around your eyes.
The light stubble of early evening
whispers gray upon your cheeks.

I see your eyes shift focus to Memory
and you are gone, too quickly for me to follow.
I can only wait for your return,
pick up the pieces (there are always pieces),
and welcome you home.

Invisible scents, sights and sounds
spirit you away each time
compressing past into present.
While I fall prey to the speed of your leaving
I am also witness to your return.

My fingers touch your face
to trace the echoes of pain around your eyes
and we hold each other so close
even the memories can't get through.