Souvenir

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.