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.