And it all comes down to this:

The scent of your skin slowly curling up,

Like a thin, blue tendril of smoke,

Out of your pores and clinging to the tips of one's senses,

Then there is...

Comfort. 

There was that day at the beach

When the salt sea water had smoothed down your hair

And the sand had scattered across your back;

And then there was that day when you slept the afternoon away,

And the watery light from the window walked softly on your face.

Do you not find it frightening

That all we are, that all we could be

All comes down to this,

Shape, color

Sound, smell, taste

Dubious parts that make up vivid images in one's head.

And these vivid images, themselves?

Why, subject to distortion over time.

The glory of Man

Hangs upon so little

Mere whisps in the minds

That will evaporate

Upon death.

Even writ down, even entombed in monuments of stone,

Man is cut down by forgetfulness, by transience.

Therefore, be content.

As unfair as it seems that all the clever things you've said, and all the great thoughts you've thought, and all the kindness you've shown

Will be kept by things frail in themselves

There is...

Comfort

In that the trees whisper your name to me

And the clouds shape your likeness when I look up at the sky.