The Window Sill

My finger stroked the wooden window sill, and I began to remember.
I remember his velvet voice,
how it spoke,
how the words would dive into the cold fresh air.
How could I have forgotten.
I remembered the way he would hold my hand,
my fragile pale own in his tender one.
How could I have forgotten.
I remembered how we would lay in the prickly grass,
as the tips would tickle our backs we look at the clouds and smile.
How could I have forgotten.
And his smile.
His smile was so wide and unforgettable,
but I had forgotten.
I laid my hands on the window sill where we had carved our names,
and began to remember the days when you were still here.