Do you still think of me?

I think of you.

Have years been kind?

In days long gone

your voice was a magic whisper

to my heart.

When it ended – wounds were deep,

whispers turned to weeping.

Your reasons? My reasons?

Strange – I don’t remember.

Who now feels the warmth

of your breath behind their ear,

and loves those flickering eye-lashes

so tranquil as you sleep?

I have often wondered.

Is your hair snow-white or silver-grey?

Do glasses prop themselves with aplomb

upon your admirable nose?

I remember you.

A part of me still loves you –

and always will.

A comfortable love, and curious.

Rest easily dear one. Think of me with pleasure

as I think of you.

First loves are special.