The space between the sheets
that mastered your every contour
is hollow like the whistling breeze of a mountain high.
The pillow, the top of my thighs,
that cradled you while you dreamt
is stiff like a rose left cracked and shambled in baking sun.
The spot just above your ear
brimming with memories and 'mares
is cold from the barrel of a constant gun.
Your finger or mine on the trigger,
it does not matter to me,
either way waking with a bullet cozy inside
filling like the space between the sheets
and softening the brain like feathers in a freshly fluffed pillow:
A memory that haunts and delights,
a hug and a kiss
a scream and a tear,
one and the same
like the wrath of tidal waves and soft bubbles of sea foam.