Your Poem

It was early September.

I can’t recall much but

my hands still remember

how you made them feel like sinners

that time we said hello,

that night in early September.

Facing each other, smoking like embers,

my knuckles to your puckered lip,

my hands still remember

how they tenderly surrendered

to the grace of your affection.

It was early September.

My hands still remember.