you told me you want to create
beautiful art
and i can't understand
how you don't see
that you are already an artist.
you paint your stories on my skin,
masterful watercolors
in deep reds and clear blues
your every word is a
drop of paint
that i carry with me.
i am a willing canvas
for your beautiful creations

In the middle of the night
I wake briefly
and reach for you
How quickly you have become
one of my
natural instincts

People tell stories of phantom limbs
pieces of themselves that were lost
were severed
that they can still feel.
They are haunted by what they once had
an itch here
an ache there
ghost sensations as powerful as the real thing.
You are my phantom limb.
You fill the hole in the center of my chest
with a continuous presence
that radiates outwards
in soft gray waves.
I feel your fingers on my stomach
your lips on my cheek
your heat mingling with mine.
Always.
Pleasure mixed with pain.
Because there is pain, yes.
Pain of remembrance
pain of what I left behind
pain of what I must wait to regain.
But there is so much more than that.
A which sort of beauty,
my little ghost heart.
And while there are those
who reject the invisible part of themselves
I relish it.
My constant reminder
that you were once in my arms
that we truly have touched
that this love has an origin.