memory

I understand drawing from memory, writing from memory,
describing a face you've seen so many times
that it floats behind your eyes like after-images of a sunset,
or a body you've held so many nights that your dreams
shape themselves to its contours –

but how is it that I write memories of one
I've never seen or touched? (Not really seen,
unpixelated, shadows slowly shifting
with the languid arch of your back; not really
touched, without using your fingers as proxy.)

It seems impossible, yet when I touch my pen
to the page for you, without dreaming, without
any effort to imagine I can remember the way
your eyes soften when I say I adore you,
the devilish, teasing curve of your seductive smile,

and when I lie in bed at night, it takes no act of will
to call forth your body, you are there before I know it's you,
your thigh pressed along the length of mine, your slight,
surprised gasp as you find my arousal, the scent of you –
it seems impossible, but I remember and you are here.