His Hand

How strong it feels
As I hold it now
Even in illness
Even in death

Shaped and formed
By a lifetime of labor
Seventy-eight years
Of toil and wear

How many times
That hand must have held me
When I was a baby
Helpless and small

How many times
That hand picked me up
Slapping my shoulders
Patting my head

I held that hand
On the way to the drugstore
Counting the cracks
One at a time

Pitching me softballs
And building my bike
Handing me pocket change
Guiding my life

The warmth fades now
But the strength remains
Even in illness

Even in death

Kithara

In my nightmare, I held your broken neck in my hand. I squeezed it tightly and cried, knowing that when I finally opened my fingers it would fall apart forever. But when I awoke you were still there waiting.

You’re always waiting.

Waiting for my palms to trace your curves, and for my fingers to stroke your tendons. Waiting for me to warm your body against my chest. Waiting for me to pour my passion into you, and to make you sing a song that only I may hear.

Waiting for me to give myself to you, completely.

I thought about when we met. At first you didn’t stand out from the others, but when I placed my hands upon you I felt a deep vibration in my soul. And even under the noise of the room, your voice was magical.

The next morning I found myself doubting what I had felt, so I went back to find you again. You were still there, and it was the same as it had been the day before. Later that week I took you home with me.

I wish I knew what happened. I still remember the excitement of my discovery. I still remember the renewed hope of fulfilling my childhood dreams. I still remember my resolution to unlock the music in my heart, and to create something new with the remainder of my life.

I still remember the promises that I made to you. I swallow them each night before I go to bed.

It isn’t fair to keep you waiting. There are others who would treat you better. There are others who would appreciate you more than I do. There are others who would give you the attention that you deserve.

Yes there are others, but you still belong to me.

And I’m not ready to give you up just yet.

Cession

Toilsome creation

Engraving emotions
Casting thoughts
Constructing words

Words that say nothing
Words that mean everything

Sculpting emotions

Cragged
Unhewn
Unpolished

Forming thoughts

Flexuous
Malleable
Amorphous

Framing words

Green
Misshapen
Unseasoned

I grow weary

Chiseling my emotions
Stamping my thoughts
Shaving my words

If you want them

Fashion them yourself

The Last Day of Summer

It begins like a typical summer Sunday.

I get up around eleven, and I lounge around in my sweatpants for an hour or two. I play around on the computer, and then I gather my dirty clothes into a pile so I can do laundry when I get home from my workout. I make a light lunch, do some more on the computer, and then I shower and take off to the gym.

After I finish my workout, I head for the book store. This is also part of my routine. On the way there my path takes me past a duplex that I used to rent, and I spontaneously decide to divert from my course and drive past it.

For some reason, I’m feeling very nostalgic today.

I park on the street and I soon find myself drifting back fifteen years, to a time in my life that I often revisit. It was a time when I was experiencing a lot of extremes; a crucial time where a slight deviation one way or another would significantly change the arc of my life in the years to follow.

I shared the duplex with two women, in a quiet residential neighborhood of St. Paul that has big old houses with well-maintained flower gardens. A mile or so in either direction and you will be downtown in one of the Twin Cities, but here it is a place of small-town grocery stores and quaint little gift shops.

I worked at a popular health club in downtown Minneapolis, and my regular acquaintances included night club owners, musicians, strippers, and policemen -- among others. I had an “in” just about any place I went back then.

It was also a time when my oldest and dearest friend died from cancer, and the first woman I’d fallen in love with since college ended up marrying another man and moving out of state.

After exhausting all the memories that I care to dredge up, I drive back to the highway and continue on to the bookstore. I find a parking spot right next to the door, and I go inside.

While browsing around, I find two books on the clearance shelf that catch my attention. One is a book of Zen poetry, and the other one I’m not familiar with but I decide to buy it on a whim.

I pay for the books and walk back out to my car. I start the car, planning on going home. That is what I normally do after my Sunday bookstore run. But today being the way that it is, I’m just not ready to go home. School will be starting tomorrow, and deep down I’m not ready for the summer to end.

I remember a warehouse job that I used to have at a place just up the road, and nostalgia once again compels me to re-visit my past. The building is owned by a different company now, but it still looks much the same as it did when I worked there. As I drive past, I suddenly remember how I sometimes used to drive over to a nearby lake to eat my lunch. I decide to check it out.

Even though it is early evening, there are still quite a few late summer beach goers trying to enjoy the last rays of the summer sun.

As I park my car I don’t plan on getting out, but it isn’t long before I feel the urge to do something unusual. Something to further prolong the summer. Something I haven’t done in a long time.

I decide to join them on the beach.

My workout shorts and t-shirt are close enough to beach wear that I won’t stand out, so I’m okay in that area. I pop the trunk of my car and grab the leopard-print beach blanket that I keep in there, and I decide to bring along one of my books to read as well. Normally Zen poetry would be an ideal pick for a lazy evening on the beach, but today I’m too unfocused for that. I grab the other book instead.

As I walk towards the sand, I remember the last time I went to the beach a few years ago. There were three twenty-something women sitting close to me, and at one point I overheard one of them tell her friends how cute she thought I was.

Since I plan on doing some reading, I don’t want to be in the middle of the action. I notice a spot on the far side of the beach where there aren’t many people. The sun is low enough in the sky that the shadows from some nearby trees are threatening that corner of the sand, so most of the people have chosen spots closer to the center of the beach. I walk over and lay out my blanket. I kick off my tennis shoes and socks, take off my shirt, and lie back on the blanket.

I tan my front for a while, and then I roll over onto my stomach. As I do, I notice some younger women on the edge of the crowd nearest me. Remembering my last beach experience, I watch them from behind my sunglasses to see if I merit a glance. In my mid-life desperation, it becomes a test for how well I have aged.

The test is returned with a big red "F" marked on the top.

It isn’t that I’m out to attract the attention of twenty-something women, although I’m certainly not against the proposition. But in spite of how ridiculous it is to make an assessment of how well I have aged on one chance encounter, today their complete indifference to me is more telling than words. It is a tangible reminder that no matter how young I feel or how well I take care of myself, I have crossed a threshold. I have passed an invisible barrier, and there is no return.

I have become an anonymous old dude at the beach.

Before depression at this thought completely sets in, my dark Irish humor kicks into gear. I remind myself of the ending to my previous encounter at the beach. After the one girl told her friends how cute she thought I was, one of the others (after looking me over) said back to her “do you know how old he is?” A wide grin splits my face.

Still on my stomach, I reach over and grab my book.

I read the cover. “The Garden of The Prophet”, by Kahlil Gibran. I’ve never heard of it before, and I’m not even sure why I bought it. I had skimmed across some interesting passages in the bookstore, but holding it in my hands on the beach I’m not sure what to expect. It may have simply been the unique illustrations that attracted me, for all I know.

I read a bit, but my mind isn’t able to hold a train of thought for very long. Nothing I read grabs my attention, and my eyes begin to wander.

I glance over and notice the shadows of the trees creeping closer. In my mind they become a sundial, counting down the end of summer. Counting down the end of my summer. When they reach my feet, it will be over.

I sit up and face the water. Kids are splashing and playing in the shallows, and water skiers are making lazy circles in the center of the lake. Teenagers flirt with each other while throwing a frisbee, and mothers catch up on conversation while keeping one eye on their toddlers.

After taking in the surroundings for a while, I pick up the book again and flip it open. When I do, my eyes immediately fall upon a paragraph that hits so close to home that it takes the breath from my lungs. It resonates so deeply with my mood that I cannot help but wonder what power put it in my hands this day. If the entire book consisted of this single paragraph, it would more than justify my purchase.

“And what are the seasons of the years save your own thoughts changing? Spring is an awakening in your breast, and summer but a recognition of your own fruitfulness. Is not autumn the ancient in you singing a lullaby to that which is still a child in your being? And what, I ask you, is winter save sleep big with the dreams of all the other seasons.”

A bedtime song for my youth...

I close my eyes, and an unsettling feeling of acceptance washes over me.

When I open them again, the shadows are almost at my feet. Deciding to cheat the clock with one final act of defiance, I reach over and grab my socks and tennis shoes. I quickly put them on, and then I put my shirt on as well. I stand up and gather my things together. Shaking the sand from my blanket, I fold it up and tuck it under my arm. People are still playing in the water, but there are steady streams of families heading back to their parked cars.

I toss the book through the open window of my car as I walk past, and then I put the blanket back in the trunk. I climb in the car and start the engine. As I pull out of the parking lot, I contemplate visiting another place I used to live when I was younger. But something has changed now. Something is different.

Instead, I just drive home.

Intermission

I give her a kiss. One long kiss, and then I stop.

She wants more.

I press her back against the wall, and my hands go to the buttons on her shirt. I undo two buttons, and then I wait. She stares into my eyes, daring me to continue. Daring me, and begging me at the same time.

I undo another.

She begins to speak, but I quickly silence her with my lips.

And then I undo another.

Transitory

Cloud upon cloud, piled on high
An ethereal mountain in the sky
I fix my gaze and begin to climb
But it dissipates before my eyes

Moon’s reflection on a stream
A silver disc; a frozen beam
I reach my hand to feel its sheen
But ripples end my wishful dream

Hope for things I only dare
Fears I can no longer bear
I lift my pen, my thoughts to share
But find they are no longer there

Guest House

As we stood there talking

facing each other through the screen door

Her sleepy eyes tight in the morning sun

A breeze from the lake tugging at her hair

A large gray sweatshirt down to her bare legs

She never looked more beautiful

And I found myself wondering

why we never

Classroom Girl

She has a pretty face

But she never smiles

I’ve never seen her smile

She has an exotic look

Her skin is creamy white

And she has beautiful almond eyes

And full, sensual lips

She sits at the far end of the row

Tucked up against the wall

Hair pulled up tight on her head

Streaks of blonde in brown

I saw her earlier in the day

Walking in the Commons

Her hair was down, and it was beautiful

I wish she would wear it that way more often

She always looks tired

Her eyes seem baggy and worn

Does she just have a busy schedule

Or is it a secret life?

She sits there at her table

Only speaking when she must

Staring at her computer screen

Typing and writing, doing her work

But she never

Ever

Smiles

Another Day

Clothes are piled up on the foot of my bed. The left side of the pile is mostly clean clothes that have recently been removed from the dryer, while the right side is stuff that I have worn over the last few days. The pile has become mixed up enough that the distinction becomes difficult to make, however. There are a few books sticking out from under the pile as well, and at least one DVD. I threw them on the bed when I got home from the book store the other day, and they haven’t moved since.

On the floor next to the head of my bed are even more books and DVDs. The end of my desk nearest the bed has a pile of neglected paperwork sitting on it. In various locations around my room, more dirty clothes are piled on the floor. Each pile contains the remains of one outfit, complete with socks and underwear.

You can always tell when I’m depressed by the state of my bedroom.

I pull off my sweatshirt and toss it on the floor next to the closet. I unbutton my pants, letting them drop to my ankles. I kick them next to my sweatshirt, pull off my socks and underwear, and add another outfit to the floor.

I grab a pair of sweatpants from the pile on my bed. I think they are clean, but I can’t say for sure because they are in the center of the pile. I throw on a pair of bootie socks from the clean side, and I grab a t-shirt. After I finish dressing, I sit down at my computer.

That pile of stuff desperately needs attention. There are forms to consolidate my student loans in there, and I know that I am behind at least two payments on one of them. For that reason, there is also a form to apply for a hardship deferment. I also have some long-neglected financial statements to go over from my bank, and a few other bills that are due any day now.

I try not to even think about the website I was supposed to start for my cousin almost two months ago.

Instead I surf the Internet. When I tire of doing that, I play a game on my computer. When I’m finished with the game I grab a late-night snack of peanuts and a few cheese sticks. I also pour myself a tall glass of iced tea. An hour or more of surfing the web, and I’m ready for bed.

After I brush my teeth, I stand in the middle of the room and look at the pile on my bed. I’ve been meaning to clear it off, but I’m too lazy to fold all of those clothes. Instead I just pull back the covers, crawl underneath, and bury my lower body beneath the pile. As I lay there in bed, I ponder the image of hiding under a pile of clothes in my bedroom. Hibernating, like a bear under a brush pile in the winter.

I’m tired. Tired of fighting battles with invisible demons that only I can see. Tired of being judged by external appearances, or a lack of physical accomplishments. Tired of keeping myself going, when all I want to do is quit. Tired of moving forward, when all I want to do is stop. Tired of waiting for something different.

Tired of hope.

I turn on my portable DVD player and slip into another world. Tonight I am on a 19th century sailing ship, waiting to see if young Horatio Hornblower will be able to get us through the Spanish fleet he has mistakenly sailed through in the fog. I checked out a box set of the A&E series from the library, and so far I’m enjoying it.

At some point I realize that my eyes are closed, and that I’m just listening to the dialogue. Shortly after that, I realize that I’m not even listening to the dialogue anymore. I open my eyes long enough to turn off the player. I slide it next to me on the bed, and then I roll over and go to sleep.

I dream about the past... non-specific images, but they leave an aftertaste of that old feeling of being at college when I was 18, living on my own for the first time and realizing that I have a whole life ahead of me to create...

I wake up in the morning and sit up in my bed, stretching my back for a few moments. I get out of bed and walk over to the master bathroom. When I finish I walk back and stand in the center of my room, surveying the carnage around me. I try to remember my dreams, but I can’t. I just have a strange, subtle feeling stirring deep inside of me.

I slowly bend down and start picking up my clothes.

The Harper

...The dinner over, and the gentlemen gathered to wine and discourse, there entered one who whispered something to Mr. Delahide; whereupon, addressing his Excellency, he told him that an old Irish harper stayed without, and would he allow him to come in, and give the company a specimen of his quality.

This his Excellency permitting, they brought in the harper, who was in truth a man very old and venerable to look on; having a long white beard which fell to his breast. His clothes were of green flannel, made after this country's manner, belted in at the waist, and falling below the knee. His legs bare, only for short hose of wool, and his feet shod with shoes or buskins of wolf skin; the hair outside, tied with two thongs across the instep, the toes and heels flat, and the name of them, as I understand, in the Irish tongue "pampooties" or "pampooters”. His head was also bare, the hair on it of a snowy whiteness, falling heavily over his forehead in a "glibbe". For his face it was well writ over with the map of his age, only the eyes still dark and fiery; and the look of them very strange, being both fierce and timorous at once.

His harp was larger than any harp I had yet seen in this country, Standing some four feet from the ground, and painted a lively green colour with sundry devices, and traceries of curious significance; also leaves and other ornaments, but all much bleached and defaced, doubtless by rough weather and the evil usage it had met with.

He -- coming forward in a lull of the discourse -- bowed himself low to the company, especially to his Excellency, who sat at the head of the table. And immediately he began to stray his fingers lightly over the strings, running from one to the other, and looking about him, fearfully yet confidently, as if to ask what was wished. And that strain he played reminded me of the song that I had heard sung by the wild woman in the hollow place of the wood, the morning that I rode forth from Kilkenny with the Butler kerne, and lost my way in the forest. And, having come to an end of it, he paused, and looked round from one to another, as it were from under the pent-house of his brows, which for all his age were black and still very thick.

Then certain airs were commanded, which he played; and afterwards Mr. Delahide said some words to him in the Irish tongue, urging him to play or sing something; at which he shook his head, yet it seemed to me reluctantly, as if he would fain have done that which was required of him, only durst not.

"What asked you of him?" enquired his Excellency, who like myself had observed this commerce between them.

"I desired him" replied Mr. Delahide "to sing a dirge, which he himself had composed, and which in times past I have often heard him sing, in honour of one Rory Oge O'More, whose harper or "Sennachie" -- that being the Irish word -- he formerly was, which of all pieces writ in the Irish tongue seemed ever to me the most moving, both for the words and the air thereof."

"And who or what was this Rory Oge O'More?" asked his Excellency "for meseems his name is familiar to me."

"As vile, dangerous, and pestilent a Rebel as ever this land, which is rich in little else, hath bred!" cried the President of Munster. "And I wonder that Mr. Delahide would even name him in this presence, still less desire songs in his honour to be sung before one who stands as our Queen's Viceregent, and before whom the countenancing of such songs is a clear insolence to her greatness."

"Yet, methinks, as the song in question is in the Irish tongue, and that none here save myself, and possibly you, my lord President, know ought of that language, it were scarce perilous to the loyalty even of the least wary to sit and listen to what they could by no means understand!" Mr. Delahide said mockingly, and with a smile upon his lips.

"Mary, that is true!" cried his Excellency. "Therefore, Mr. Delahide, I charge you to command him to sing this song, about which you have moved my curiosity, and, if danger there be in his singing, I myself will be his surety that no harm shall happen to him for the said cause."

His Lordship having so spoken, Mr. Delahide spake a few words again in Irish to the harper; who thereat straightened himself, flinging suddenly off that bowed and dejected aspect he had hitherto worn, and looking a full score of years younger, so brightly did his eyes flash and his whole face alter. And he looked about him now, no longer scared and timorous, but with a fierce defiant air; and especially I noted that he so looked at the President of Munster, as much as to say that he understood his animosity, yet feared it not, having the sanction of one that was greater than he.

So, having turned his harp about, he lifted it a little, and set it upon a stool or trestle that stood there; and placing himself beside it, struck his hands across the strings with a careless gesture. Then, having played awhile, he suddenly broke out into a sort of singing, which yet was hardly singing, but rather a chant or crooning noise, which swelled and swelled so that at times it seemed to rise to the very rafters, rolling and beating about like thunder within our ears, and again to sink till it was no louder than the whisper of a summer stream over grass and small stones; his harp the while seeming to follow and take part, more like a thing of separate life joining in at its own pleasure, than an instrument played by the hands. Stranger singing and playing I never heard before, nor expect to ever hear again.

It chanced that, being next to the window, I saw what was not, I think, seen of others in the company. For when that strange song or chant first began all the kernes, gallowglasses, and other wild Irish mustered without started and stared, seeming to prick their ears, as a horse does at the sound of the trumpet. Presently, as it went on, they began to draw nearer and nearer; yea the very bearers of burdens and churls -- creatures seemingly scarce human -- gathered, till a score or more were below the window. And I marked that they looked one at the other with eyes wide open, as if asking how such a song came to be heard in such a place and before such company. Then -- that wild singing still continuing, and rising ever louder and louder -- they began to grip at one another with their hands, and to move to and fro with their feet, as if they would fain have broken into wild dancing and leaping. Only, whenever anyone came out of the castle, they all dispersed suddenly; or fell flat upon the ground, hoping to escape notice in the dark, but so soon as that person had passed on, they rose up again, and crept nearer and nearer, as if their very souls fed upon what they heard!

The evening growing late, as soon as this strange song or dirge was over, and my Lord had dismissed the old man with a fair gift of money, the company broke up...

~ Emily Lawless, "With Essex in Ireland (Being extracts from a Journal Kept in Ireland during the year 1599 by Mr. Henry Harvey, Sometime Secretary to Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex)”, London, 1902. pps 156-161

Poetic Rebuttal

She:

I sit
and I wait
to watch you make your mind up
I cannot make it for you anymore than
I could form the words like marbles on
your tongue
Tell me the truth
just once
and set down your fists
gnarled relics of fear
and mist your cheeks with the
flood you know is coming
Its safe here
you can cry
no less a man for doing so
Be brave
As brave as I have had to be to love you

Me:

I live in the moment
So my mind is continuously made
Reborn each second of my existence

The truth has been spoken
But the words go unheard
They are not the words you desire

You say my fists are gnarled in fear?
They contain jewels for the one I will love

My tears flow when they must
And there is no shame
For I stand bravely, with honesty in my heart
And truth in my words

Motivational Moment

Isn’t it sad how easily we lose sight of our dreams?

We all have unrealized dreams. It could be finishing your degree, a trip you want to take, an art form you want to try, or a friendship you want to rekindle. Maybe you always wanted to try singing karaoke in a bar full of drunks, to learn how to play the guitar, or you'd love to see the Sistine Chapel. Perhaps you think you’d make a good sculptor, or you’d like to try fly-fishing, or you always wanted to learn to speak Russian.

Maybe deep down you know that you are really a teacher, a police officer, a writer, a forest ranger, or a stand-up comedian. It could be as simple as wanting to bake a perfect soufflé, or as complicated as improving your relationship with your estranged mother.

There are things we always plan on doing, but somehow never get around to. And there are dreams from childhood that we allow to become covered with dust -- one mote at a time.

Maybe we didn’t know how to start, or we started down the path and were deterred. Maybe we tried once or twice and failed. Or maybe we only dreamt about it, but we always intended to do it.

“I’ll do it later." “I’ll do it tomorrow." “I’ll do it next week." “I’ll do it next month." And the years pass us by.

How quickly we allow random happenings in our lives to box us in and define our limitations. We all have to share our lives with others, of course, and we should. Without others our life has little meaning. But so often we give up control of large chunks of our lives to other people based only on external circumstances.

We become mired in roles, in jobs, in relationships, in self-concepts. “I just don’t have the time to do it now." “It’s too late for me." “I’m too old to do that." “I’m too shy." “My dad wouldn't like it." “I have responsibilities now." “I can’t afford it." “I'll look like an idiot." “I’m too out of shape." “My friends will think I'm weird."

“What if I fail?”

If your life were ending tonight, what would your regrets be?

I’m not talking about things that you wish you could change from your past. What is done is done. And besides, there isn’t a single life story in the entire history of humanity that doesn’t include failure, pain, sorrow, mistakes, or weakness. Not one. Accepting your past (and who you are) is often the first step to living in the present.

I’m talking about the things that you haven’t done yet. Those things you always wanted to try. That person you always wanted to get to know better. That place you always wanted to go. That thing you always meant to change.

That person you always wanted to be.

One truth we can all count on is that our lives will eventually end. But here is another truth: If you are reading this, you are still here. Your life still belongs to you. And the only person truly in control of it is you. You have the power to do whatever you want with it.

Your life belongs to you, and only you can live it.

Sure, others will influence you, put pressures on you, or have demands for your time. But it is you who should control how much they steer your course in life. Only you should decide how much of yourself to give away, and how much of yourself to keep. No matter how much you want to be there for others, if you don't take care of your own needs from time to time you will eventually have nothing left to give.

There is only one you, and there will never be another. So don't forget that you deserve to have your own dreams fulfilled, too.

Belated Apology

I was eating lunch today
and I heard your song

The one that you said

you wished somebody shared with you
as your special song

I know you think I abandoned you
but I had to reject the illusion
that had formed between us

Not because you lied to me

but because you were lying to yourself

I just waved my hand
and dispelled the dream

Our dream

And even though I did the right thing
it still hurts

And I’m sorry

Unintentional

Your words gave me strength today.

I don’t know why, really. They told of your weakness, not my strength. You exposed your vulnerability, your pain, and in doing so, your incredible beauty. I felt them deeply when I read them, but I feel them more even now. They still vibrate in my soul, like the fading hum of a tuning fork.

I don’t know you, but I feel like I could love you. How can that be?

Wait. I think I understand. It has been so long that I nearly didn't recognize it.

You have brushed against that remembered feeling of unconditional love. A love that has the ability to overlook the flaws and failures of the past, and stay focused on the potential of the future. A love that is able to see beyond the defects of the moment; holding on to that which is good and worthy and promising. A love that offers strength in the middle of weakness and suffering.

I don't know you, but you have touched something inside me. I have read your words, and they have given me strength. They have given me hope, and you have reminded me of the promise of the life that I have left.

What could be more worthy of love than that?

The Field

I needed to escape
but I had nowhere to go

So I ran to the field

Through my back yard
over the chain link fence
down the hill through the woods

The moonlight showed the path
as I ran through the grass
to a lonely tree by the tracks

Just three blocks more
and I’d be at her house

But I would never go there again

Underneath the small tree
I collapsed to my knees
Sobs became wails
as I finally lost control
So loud that I was afraid
somebody would hear me

On and on they went
until a passing train

strangled them to silence

Erosion

“You’ve always been my rock,” she said. “How can you not be here for me?"

“Eventually, even a rock will be worn away to nothing by the relentless pounding of the sea,” I replied.

The Princess of Qatar

There is a shining star I see

It beckons from afar

The soul, the mind, the beauty of

The Princess of Qatar

Her regal grace and bearing

Betray her noble birth

But they do not encompass

The essence of her worth

Her face the bane of poets

Who struggle through the night

Tormented by her beauty

They scribble and they write

Her mind weighs contradiction

And measures truth and worth

Her soul, it aches for beauty

The beauty of the Earth

Her voice beyond enchanting

To be heard at any price

A wondrous, lilting symphony

Of birds in Paradise

Her scent a velvet prison

That captures every man

A wondrous blend of perfumes

Made by her very hand

Her heart a drum of passion

That gives the universe

The rhythm and the tempo

That is has known from birth

She mirrors my desire

My loyalty and love

The very image of my soul

Reflected from above

Though I may never savor

Her lips upon my face

Her memory has given me

A kiss that never fades