Distillation

I don’t remember the things
I thought would be important.
Rather, it’s the smallest things that return.

I still feel her fingers
Slowly combing through my hair.
I remember her small hands
Bunching the sheets
In her fists.
I still hear her gasps
Feel her shudder
And remember the breathless quiet
After loving.
I remember washing her hair in the shower
Toweling her dry
And her slow, sexy grin.

In youthful exuberance
I gathered fleshly details
Thinking someday
I would treasure these most.

Not so.

It’s the tender expressions
The heartfelt connections
I esteem.
I spend much time
Remembering her smile
The light in her eyes
The warmth of her leg
Lying across my hip.
I remember the cup of tea she sipped
And the coffee I drank
After loving.

The shock and awe of youthful sex
Is not what prevails
As years pile like snow against my door.
What returns
Are the ways
She touched my heart
And soothed my soul.

Somebody needs to tell young lovers
All the “knowing” kids
That the hell for leather days are fun.
But what remains
In the cooling clime of age
Are the fond
And affectionate distillations of love.