Even when you aren't here, I can feel you.

My memory of the precise feel of your skin

lightly presses against my body

in every way that I enjoyed you,

          but when I reach out to pull you closer, 

          I am quietly reminded of your absence.

My lips still carry the taste of you,

while your scent (nearly edible, as I recall)

hovers at the edge of my perception,

quietly beckoning me from my chair,

          and I am nearly to the door

          before I realize that it wasn't you, but the memory of you

          that called me.

So if on some afternoon you find me

standing slightly lost at your door,

know that I am just as surprised as you,

and that it was the ghost of your touch