I call the men who have ran off
with my affections
phantoms,
and rightfully so;
for they often say my name
as though it was another
way to sigh and let
a little breeze come into the room,
and they press their hands
against me so gently,
that I couldn't tell the difference
if they had never
touched me at all.

yet I still find myself
whispering their names
against my pillow
in angelic tongue,
waiting to feel their flesh once more
beneath my sheets
when I am hoping for one night
where it isn't just me
lying in the dark.