Where has the glowing temple gone
whose walls like hand prints always warm
where morning whispers last till dawn
and incensed perfume lingers on.
Where tanned walls in the sunshine glimmer
revealing sculptured stories there,
moments like forgotten scripture:
familiar hearts decisive stare.
Where close enough to feel you feel
and mean the things at three am.
Sounds of poetry spilling out of blank sheets
one breathes out and one breathes in.
Where lines without a subject written
help to find things to remember.
Warmth felt from a distance on a
summer day in late September.
Gentle words from darkness captured
no one truly but the sun, turn to face
what one has wished for; eylids open
and its gone