How were we to know
that in our effort
to be extraordinary,
we would make only
careless, forgotten love.

How were we to know
you would be only
a freckle
on sun-kissed skin,
a whisper in the wind
not strong enough
to tickle my neck.

There is neither here,
nor there,

Only nothing.

There is not then or now,
what was or what will be.

Only nothing
and the space between.

Sometimes you would light a cigarette,
just to put it out.

The end would ignite
for a second or two,
then you would step on it.

You liked the idea of letting things burn
but never burn out.

Instead, you snuffed them out
before they ever had a chance
to do anything
but go up in smoke.

Here I sit,
bare in my being.

Bleeding, grieving..

Patiently awaiting
the return
of what's missing.

Morning spent lying, gazing

turn into afternoons
snuggled in sheets
of lazy radiance.

Hands rest on skin
with languorous delight,

traveling amorously
with nowhere to be,

only knowing
where they want to go.