There is a poem
that I mean to write.
Not today -
maybe on a rainy Saturday in
late November.
When i will wake up early
just to watch you sleep.

When you will almost be there
- chasing through the maze of your dreams -
but not quite there.
Even now - When you aren't here
- a trace of you reaches out to me.
Across the chasm that separates us.

Your sillage
will linger around me.
A scent that I will have set to heart.
Preserved in the vacant spot
That eagerly waits to receive it.

I will pick my moleskin,
that lies at my bed side.
And maybe then,
I'll write a poem that I mean to write.