Sometimes,
Memory.
Makes fool of us all.
When all that is left of you
(of us)
is a smell,
I wonder.
In my wonderment I question
if we ever were at all!
I smell your shampoo on my pillow
your perfume on my sheets
your sweat clings to my clothing
your lipstick to my lips.
But memory, so often unreal,
now in the clear morning light,
will never make false accusation
of our time together.
(L.F)