He means a memory

I can
trace its lines
along
my fingertips

Cash poor
carefree
sliding on grass hills
in good clothes
good enough anyway

Driving down
a steep street
clocking 75
at least
catching air
their voices high
faster faster

Storms were
for playing tag
in their
bathing suits
rain for
rolling windows
down
not up

Tapping
morse code
through
their bedroom
walls
calling
I love you
through the halls

Of a home
more fixed
than broken
he liked to say

I love you
I love you more
I love you
more than chocolate

Dead silence
can't
top that

He means
more than a memory.