This may well destroy me
and I am entirely,
completely,
and magnificently
alright with that.

I am haunted
by the things I miss
and all the times my name
doesn't fill your mouth.

I need a word
for the way that feels,
for all the combinations
of all the letters, don't
seem to say it properly

I know the way
to your toes curled
and palms filled
with sheets squeezed.
It matters not
that I did not build
the roads, for no one
can drive them
like me.

Will you come
and roll yourself
carelessly in my bed?
If leave you must
then leave you must,
the scent of you
behind.

                                                    ­                                    Jon York   2019