The Silence of Memory
Your car rumbles east along the Cape,
headlights searching the blacktop
for your other life.
Memories erupt from a CD
and I appear, hand on your thigh.
A kiss, wet as the closing fog,
tickles one ear.
You brake, reach out
aside my clothes, to fold
your body into mine, to draw
my breasts into your mouth until
you are filled with me, but
the crunch of gravel startles.
The CD goes silent.
You rub your eyes to find
that only the rustle of sea air
marks my empty seat.
Art: Sunrise at Atlantic Beach, Fl
by Keith Tillman
copyrighted and used with
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