The space of this room is impressed
with your former presence;
footsteps in the sand that refuse
to be washed away by time.
It's as though the air flows in accordance
to the memory of your breath,
and the light bends in a bow
to your absent beauty.
You have left this place in love with your touch,
as every trace of your hand is recounted
with the tock of the clock.
This place will never forget you,
and as I sit,
left alone from your leaving,
I toast the room and its close resemblance
to my own mind,
the other place that is unmistakably
touched by once knowing you,
and is left empty of all but your memory.