Do you?

sometimes i find myself wondering if you remember 

that night your hands spoke more than you'd ever said

do you remember the colour of the sofa with the red cushion 

I hid my face in as your hands spoke to my skin

or that night in the parking lot, the one by the beach, 

the waves crashing as we spoke of stars 

and you kissed me, my fingers caught in your hair

do you remember that morning we cuddled up 

under the memorial to someone long dead 

the sun rising over a lion's head 

granite steps pressed into our spine, cold and unforgiving

or that afternoon on the mountain, clover chains and laughing -

walking on the rail tracks, keeping close 

in case i fell again 

and when i did, your hands spoke again and i listened

distracted by the view and the sound of the oncoming train

i misheard and mistook the words of your hands as the truth of your voice.