As I turn around, your presence remains.
Your clothes.
Your tooth brush.
Your scent.
Reminders of you arouse. If I allow any sense memory to return I feel you once more and am drawn back.
There isn't a last or next time. Imagination can contain only your length touching, enfolding the entire length of me.
There are no words for propioception, verbally, we can't necessarily distinguish the myriad forms of touch. And yet, my every breath generates tactile reminders of you - heat, pressure, moisture, chills.
Once more, shivering, I am racked.
Nothing remains but the contact and interaction of us.
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