I think that it was that freckle in the corner of your eye which started this.
This dawning of longing and realisation; this drowning cascade of suddenly awakening to the harsh reality of the words which I never thought I would say: that I miss you.
And the way that your chest formed some form of cavern when there seemed no escape; the deep and unending path your eyes led; the slight quiver in your voice in the curve of your lips; the faint smell of soap and washing powder cradling the dimples of your neck; the hushed urgency in the staccato of your words; the pink stained taste in the sweetness in ripple of your lips; the smouldering glow of your embrace and the great juxtaposition between the fair porcelain covered by the sweep of burning sienna.
But it is most definitely the tranquillity of your soul: the sombre lament harmonised with the humble note of benevolence; the beckoning promise of trust in your name.
And the heart-wrenching truth that it is too late; we are merely ships passing in the night.