sensory memory

Fifty Arabic words for sand. One hundred Inuit words for snow.

I do not need words for sand, or snow, or even, really, anything else; all I wish I had were tens of thousands of words for love, an infinite supply of synonyms and near-words, but such words do not come to mind.

Instead, I am inundated by the remembered impressions of you—the barest hint of your warm scent; the echo of your voice; the smirk that tugs across your lips; the mischief in your eyes.

I call to mind the brush of your fingers against mine, and the fire that lances up my spine when that brush becomes a caress.

And that?

There are no words for that.