Handshake In Your Mouth

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.