How many of us drift to thoughts of lovers last,
of men we've crossed and spells we've cast,
to mourn the touch of nights long passed.
Years of feast give way to shallow fast.
My mind returns to one brief treat:
Your hands in mine; the world at our feet.
"It's hot," you said, kicking away the sheet.
The tighter I held, the faster we turned
from a peaceful sky to an ocean churned
that pushed me out by the force of it.