I feel,

like I always have,

The stubble on his chin
Bristling my underbelly like grass blades.
My warm skin melts it into moth wings that eat
Our shared sweaters in the closet space
He vacated three years ago,
When it was just fine to shout his name
Across the hall to make sure he ate dinner already,
To make sure the tickets were by the lampshade,
That the headphones were borrowed by his friend early that morning

I remember,

like I always have,

The way steam forms automatically
On glass panels when heated,
The strange shape of your voice,
The two strange shapes of your voice:

The first for me, was lovelier than the other-
It was the voice who asked how my summer had been.
The soothing, corrosive voice, telling my ex to *******.
It was a voice found in the thin aisles between Peruvian priests
When they come together and think they haven’t sinned.

The other voice was thick, turbid, and button-nosed.
The way asterisks quickly fixed typographical errors.
The sultry, commonfolk, arcane voice that I love so much.
It was heresy.

I’ve heard gems form at the mouth of deep reserves, and I’d like to pretend
That’s where you are
That’s where you went
That’s where you are hiding
And time comes when you return
Gem or sans gem,
I’ll put your chin, like I always have,
On my underbelly.
Like a infant who deployed
Without cutting their placenta open