Her fingers, long and impossibly beautiful, <br />Raised an early morning coffee cup <br />To the silhouette slope of her nose. <br />It was then that he remembered, <br />Not only her but another morning <br />Some other time ago. <br /> <br />He remembered those hands <br />From thumb to tip of outer finger <br />Warm and spanned across his back, <br />Palm pressed against his skin. <br />And then later, climbing down the stairs <br />He stood outside on the veranda <br /> <br />Where the wind was stirring <br />And her scent lifted from his skin <br />As he stood waiting there for her. <br />He watched the clouds that tumbled <br />Down across the ridge and full of rain <br />That fell upon the hard black earth. <br /> <br />Now, rising from her chair, she walked, <br />And the swirl of scented air from <br />The motion of her passing, <br />Turned his eyes to her. <br />But brushing by she did not stop <br />Or pause in recognition. <br /> <br />Sitting, he did not turn to watch <br />For what was left to see? <br />Nothing more than a thin grey ghost <br />In a passageway of shadows <br />And a clock that hung on a café wall <br />Counting the moments away.<br /><br />Eric Peters<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/toronto-airport/
