One Year Later

I do not know whether
it is your hair like slanted sunlight
or your unfathomable
hot, blue eyes
or the intimate pink
of your tapering fingers
or the long, well-carved
line of your body
that I keep finding
echoed
in every other man.

All I know is that
when I let my eyelids down
I imagine a far-off paradise
where the men have dark
hands with stubby digits
whose tentative touch
does not call to mind
the lingering pressure
of your fingertips.