It's interesting how when the smell of your tshirt mingles
with the scent of the cinnamon bread you made me,
I feel you next to me.
As if while you baked it, you infused it with yourself,
only released with heat, and the memories it brings about.
Because it all comes back to that shirt, the fabric to bridge the gap,
the fragrance of your body that I only notice when you're gone.
It must be the reason for how, when I lay down in your shirt,
in my bed where we were, the smell of your body
that only makes me smile while awake
brings you to me when I sleep,
making me question conversations we've had,
if they happened outside of pure imagination.
And even in my mind I can feel your warmth,
my hand lacing with yours above your head,
every part of our bodies fitting together like the most
intricate of puzzle pieces.
Every touch is reminiscent of a dancer's embrace,
and dancing has given us intimate knowledge of each others
body, but something unseen gives us
greater understanding of the rest.
So when we're close we don't talk, we don't need to.
No words can be exchanged that we don't already know,
that we don't already feel,
that haven't already been said across 90 miles.
It's a large span, yet we could build a bridge,
connect ourselves,
with the things we've said in spite of it,
the conversations that spur small visits and make it all bearable.
And each declaration brings you closer, so when I close my eyes
my head finds your shoulder.
My hips find your hips,
my love wraps yours like a ring wraps my finger
if just for a night, if just for a moment,
if only in my mind.