The Last Time I Held Her by Tim Philippart

The Last Time I Held Her

 

Not knowing it was the last,
was like so many others,
yet unlike any.

Despite dizzy heart,
my hand low on her back,
drew her to me.

Ten fingers spread wide on my shoulders,
pulled with opposite,
yet, equal, passion.

Perhaps, all would not be so clear,
had it not been,
the last time I held her.

 

Perfume

 

Music to
tap toes,
snap fingers,
sway hips,
drive feet
with the beat.

Now, the last dance.
I cradle her right hand,
soft and feather light,
wrap my right arm
to the small of her back.
She lets me lead.

Cheeks touch.
Hips brush.
Eyes embrace.
Her heart beats
in response
to mine.

Last dance
of the last dance,
a memory caught
on the scent
of warm cookies,
every time.

 

On The Path

 

Every now and then, but mostly now than then, Tim Philippart writes some prose and poetry.  Once in a while, someone likes it.  He sold his business in 2015 and is learning to write.  Contact him at timphilippart@gmail.com.

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