I mourn your scent on my fingers,
The feel of your supple skin under
My calloused hands.
With these hands, I’ll mold
Clay all over the world
Into beautiful dishes.
Dishes to serve delightful meals;
Last suppers if you may,
In memory of a special thing.
Because a memory is all that’s left
When your scent fades and I’m bereft,
Starting this night that I sit here
Writing this poem for you.
This is for you, babe. I miss you.
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