Sweet longing, a kind of sadness that you're already done with, a sadness you recollect nostalgically. Hard to explain, my friend Alex said.
Then he said, "Hand memories." I think he was making a sexual joke, but I couldn't figure out the context. Only the punch line remains.
I wonder what my hands will remember of Tucson. Rubbing shampoo into your jet-black hair, turning it white so that you looked forty years old. Making coffee in the "cottage." Holding the manuscript pages of so many talented poets. Sliding open the doors. Closing them. When you kissed me, my hand was on the back of your neck.
We kissed until one of us let go. The other of us kept his eyes closed, his lips slightly parted, waiting. When he noticed the kiss had stopped, he smiled.
He opened his eyes.