Impromptu thumb and forefinger
touch and separate on your face
in the photograph, as if on a screen.
I double-tap a lifetime, slip you on
again like a pair of skinny jeans,
zip our hips together, button
your sun-kissed navel to mine
from the inside. My now digitised
mind reverse-pinches to that dance
where we began, in monochrome.
Looking down, I see your feet. Feet
are not always easy to love. I loved
your feet. Intervening sacraments
delete, divine absolution of two
weddings and three holy communions,
leaving only your tight buttocks
in that tuxedo and the sad ashes
of hand-written love letters
that were not hers to burn.
(First published by The Galway Review)