It's the drone
Of some forgotten tune
Bubbling up static from
A radio station you've never heard of,
Lack luster in comparison
To the glow of their voice
When they'd murmur the
Curves and valleys of song
And sway their hips
In sync with the rhythm
In the early blush
Of the mid-morning sun
Soaking the kitchen whole,
The run in with a smell
That only half encapsulated
The fire in their hair
And the spirit in their heart,
Nuzzled warm against the
Breathless rasp of winter,
Somehow seeming to weave itself
Into all of your clothes,
No matter how many times you washed them,
But it was okay
Because you didn't mind
Always having them close to you,
The upturned stretch
Of a stranger's lips
As they hand you your coffee
And for a moment so quick
You hardly catch it wink into existence,
You see their face again,
And hold up the line,
Now shifting with impatience,
Because you forgot that
Your feet weren't cemented
To the ground,
And it's things such as these
That for a fraction so small
You might just miss it,
They exist in your world again.