She can etch with
her finger the place
he lay on the bed;
see the indentations

where his head was
on the pillow. She can
smell his hair oil, his
body sweat mixed with

the lavender water.
She can close her eyes
and see him still lying
there, can sense his

presence, feel his finger
(ghostly) run along
her spine as she bends
over the bed, to sniff the

pillowcase. With eyes
closed she can pretend
so much, can imagine all
sorts of things, him doing

what he did best, and she
liking, wanting it all again,
just the once, just one more
lovely time. She opens her

eyes, just the indentation,
the smell, the faint stain of
hair oil. She lays on the bed
where he once lay, shuts

her eyes again, puts her
hands down by her sides,
imagines him kissing her
lips, wet and warm, his

tongue protruding her
mouth, touching her teeth,
moving within. She pretends
he is running his hands along

her thighs, lifting her dress,
moving between her legs, his
lips pressing hers, the bed
moving, her body alive again,

him there, she holding on to
him, wanting him to stay, not
go and away. She opens her
eyes and he’s gone, just her

alone, lying still, motionless.
The spider on the ceiling of
her room, black and plump
as a pudding, hanging there,

suspended. All thoughts of her
lost love momentarily ended.