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A Farewell Kiss Sep. 12, 2006 ] 8:30 PM Those days, you were a consellate of dreams, Anchored by your being - I could trace, Every last mark on that thoughtful face. Imprinted in the waking, a living portrait In sleep, a greek god, a fulgent idol. These days, my sedulous memory fails to keep, Beyond the fire cupped in your hands The rough scent of smoke, your bell-like laugh, The presence of you, at the drawing of day I remember all, but you - and the softness of your cheek. For the Smoking Man. Memory is an artificial construct, manufactured from a composite of sensations. Dreams are no less manufactured, but seem more tangible, especially when padded out by hope. wax ] wane