I see you, sometimes, between the lines of now and then,
a sentence I could never quite finish, never quite erase.
still on paper you remain, smudged and
barely legible now. you are the poem I have never quite let go of.
and still, now and then, I will catch the smell of your shirt
hooking into me like barbed wire;
god I hate to be reminded of you,
hate to be reminded how there was a beginning
a half-written middle, and no end - just a comma, waiting for finish.
and I am still grudgingly hoping that someday
you will slip back in and finish it my sentence, my poem,
give me my goodbye, and I pray you do not leave your scent behind.