How often I've imagined your voice
after coffee; the sound
like scratching; the smell
like desert. How often I've imagined
your fingers in a thought;
their rapid, rhythmic tapping;
a fast and furious escape from
your mind, or from me.
How often I've imagined your legs
in a hurry; the gait of someone
beautiful who believes they
are not, How often I've imagined
your arms at night; if I asked,
around me, if I didn't,
around another. How often I've
imagined your hair in
the sun; soiled with muck,
drenched in sweat; sheets
in the morning, our
only souvenir. How often
I've imagined what I think
is your face; eyes
lapis lazuli, or deeply
muted green. The years,
like the sun, burning
the remnants of nights
devoid of sleep and
days devoid of love.
Comments