it's not likely
that i'd ever get tired of tracing
the topography
of your skin,

or housing myself within the confines
the breath of your memory
provides. it plays like
an old jazz record, filling
the crevices of this room,
the cavity within my rib cage,
thrumming in its slumber.

i remember
how your forehead would rest on mine,
beads of salt and longing
finding solace on my skin,
my own eyes two chambers
for your mammoth-like sorrows.
and so the needle drops,
this melody plays, and i know it
so well,
your crooning voice crackles,
spilling narratives of afflictions
ages old.