your presence lingers
not in grand gestures
but in the spaces in between

your smile filling my kitchen
with a warmth that remained
long after the coffee grew cold
and my cup was empty

the place still set for you,
as if you would walk in, sit down,
and make everything
feel a little more whole

the way we spoke on the subway
our words mingling like passengers
clinging to the rails
never quite ready to part ways

the way things look too clean…too still
not just your toothbrush
but the mess you made of my heart
gone

how lovely it was
to have your things scattered among mine
a forgotten sock
your glasses on the nightstand
a sign this space was ours
once

the scent of your shampoo hovers
an echo of you in the quiet
I breathe you in, eyes closed
wishing you were here
to wrap the night around us
turning off the world together
leaving only us
together in the stillness

it's the new knives
that can open
the old wounds
the easiest

Will she, won’t she
buy my Christmas wares:
If I work to sell me
will she take my snare?

The practiced pitter-patter
of my seller’s pitch
hangs in crisp cold air
and hopes to scratch her itch.

Her eyes dart to and fro
from one stall to the next:
the jingling coins’ fickle flow,
Christmas bells that leave me vexed.

Will she, won’t she,
see this heart that beats?
What if I add it free
to the sale of these sweetmeats?

Each moment wisps of tinsel
a-flutter in icy gales:
I fear her dismissal
as I grasp at just one more sale.

A spark of insight melts the ice
in a tiny warming breeze:
It’s not my wares I price,
but what I’m truly selling’s me.

I can't be you
you can't be me
but we can come together
in mutual respect and dignity