Whatever happens with us, your body will haunt mine — tender, delicate your lovemaking, like the half-curled frond of the fiddlehead fern in forests just washed by sun. Your traveled, generous thighs between which my whole face has come and come — the innocence and wisdom of the place my tongue has found there — the live, insatiate dance of your nipples in my mouth — your touch on me, firm, protective, searching me out, your strong tongue and slender fingers reaching where I have been waiting years for you in my rose-wet cave — whatever happens, this is.