And when we’ve finished, and I’m at the door,
Before we cheek to cheek and almost kiss,
I stop a minute, check my pockets for
The outlines of the stuff I sometimes miss -
Like wallet, keys, specs, phone: to semaphore
My momentary thought-paralysis,
A second when I cannot quite ignore
That what I leave is so much more than this:
Because you are the keys that let me in
A place that feels like home; you help me see
So clearly, curl such riches in your skin,
And call – no matter where I roam – to me:
Compared to which these objects kept within
My pockets are mere outlines – memory.
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