There are days I don’t remember
There are days I choose to forget
Days I do not stay
There are days I catch his name echoing down a produce isle,
Days I rest at a joke, lonely amusing to myself and search for the eyes that know me
There are days
I lie in bed at night and place my hand on the pillow
The hot relief of the rhythm of his chest
Most an abrupt rise
and a fall
But he breathes in waves, ever rolling
I lace my fingers through the cotton corner case
Retracing, the back of his neck shivering
I follow by huffing in the crafted
Flavor of coffee, dark elixir on his breath
Even though he swore off it.
And I grasp and
I clench.
Vividly existing in every tangible sense,
Though, just as vibrant,
despite pleads of pausing.
I re
Witness exodus,
Taste deceits,
Hear excuses,
Scent betrayal,
Feel his routine love.
There are days I do not miss the cunning pierce of certainty
Days I miss sensing delusions.