The last sensation

I catch the edge of your tell-tale dimple- there one moment and gone the next, like your childhood.

Your voice is fickle- low and crackling one moment then high-pitched melodic, breaking apart as both the child and adult speak as one.

You press your face against mine, still soft and supple- it almost feels unchanged, except for the subtle hint of new facial hair tingling against my premenopausal skin.

I gulp another mouthful of the red wine, the taste of acidic and sweet mixing together- confusing the senses, intoxicating, and a reminder of the in-between conundrum that is you.

The aroma of your unwashed body odor slams into me, ripe and pungent- can this be the same sweet boy whose powder-sprinkled baby scent I could swim in? They say that smell is the last memory to go but I will keep that ambrosial sensation until the fragrance of my death shroud envelops you.