It isn't your body that still beckons
From the eyelid of the doorway
Or the mischief and promise
In your sigh and your smile
It isn't your warmth in the private of places
Or your eyes' dilation at various stages
Not the coupling of our heart-beats
Nor the whisper of your skin
It is none of these.
What most visits my memory and recalls you again
Is the smell of your hair when we kissed in the rain.
(c) S. Evans
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