I find when you fall in love it is rarely how you picture it, 

Rarely convenient, 

Rarely conventional.

Stepping stones with landmines, minesweeper of the heart.

I think the best way to love is with your eyes and not your hands.

It is precious; 

Try to hold on too tight and it will shatter, leaving scars in its wake, 

Scars so visible you are reminded everyday of what you lost. 

So pretend you are in a museum...

Look but don't touch...

Look long enough and they will invite you to become an exhibit.

The memory of your hands, your shoulders, 
Is now edged in icy cold, fading.
And your lips, your sweet firm lips, smooth and responsive,
The ghost of your hands stroking my neck, around my body.
Your legs wrapped around mine.
Tight closeness cocooned and hot.
All that is bundled together as a warm contented parcel inside me,
The heat rising up, proving the memories in my mind....