The distant mock of warmth: an aftertaste of the bodies' greeting collision. You'll never feel that again. I thought I saw a rising tide dissolving the streets, and leaving blank shores. I strained to hear the distant waves encroaching, eroding wood and home. I can't recall the sound of footsteps, the scent of skin. It washed away with the taste of ashes. I grind my teeth but it's gone. As we walk, we'll pass through the last of night, sick with dust and smiles. The mock of warmth: you'll never feel that again.