When you leave
I can feel warmth in the space where you were
for hours.
The kiss you left blossoms from my cheek
and doodles roses all over my skin,
doodles roses all over around and through my skin.
I am transparent;
someone that might look at me
just after you’ve left
would see nothing,
well at least nothing but
the mist your breath left on my hair,
the shimmer your hands gave softly my cheeks,
and those roses that started with your kiss,
the roses that finished themselves in your absence,
drawing their glow like a memory,
a thought, a guess of how you might draw them
if you were here.
I don’t stir;
any movement might erase the lovely imprint
you’ve left on my pillow
and any rustling might shake
any lingering trace there might still be of you
from the air,
but if the quiet stays unbroken
and the sheets stay just like this,
I can let myself believe
that your eyes would gaze back at me
if I were to open mine
or that you might just kiss me again.
I can listen to my own breaths
and imagine that they are also yours,
feel the beat of my own heart
and pretend that I am resting against your chest,
or even that our chests
are one and the same.
I can plant and grow a whole garden of roses like that,
roses just for now,
roses just for you.
(With me
no matter what it is
it’s always just for you).