His touch.

He tasted like poetry

Like letters and words,

And dimensions and worlds.

Not so mundane,

But if music may be the language of love, life and wonder,

His kiss was a symphony

No instrument could hold,

Much less ponder.

He felt like home;

Like lumpy bedding of muscles and fresh linen,

And sweet smells from breakfast and dinner,

Occasionally the scent of black burnt crusts ripe with cinnamon and nutmeg imbedded in the layers,

But nonetheless,

When I still stumble upon the scent

I feel him around me,

In my arms, in my heart

The comfort he sought

When I sought his touch.