Handshake In Your Mouth

The distant mock of warmth: An aftertaste of the bodies’ greeting collision
You’ll never feel that again

I thought I saw a rising tide dissolving the streets, and leaving blank shores
I strained to hear the distant waves encroaching, eroding wood and home

I can’t recall the sound of footsteps, the scent of skin
It washed away with the taste of ashes. I grind my teeth but it’s gone

As we walk, we’ll pass through the last of night, sick with dust and smiles
The mock of warmth: You’ll never feel that again