I poured your coffee this morning as if you were me,
Forgetting the individuality of a morning's order,
Distracted by the tangles of skin unbound by surface
Surrounded by the scent of cinnamon and heat-
I'm sorry you didn't touch it.

I still feel the warmth from your hands on my back
Pressing in sorrowful apologies for spilling your guts
Draining recognized reservoirs of our past lives
Things I've been carrying fearfully,
Liberated

Your hair still dancing in my memory, there animated
Now barely settled in the afternoon, from a morning's breeze
Floating through the sunlight from my window
Settling to rest on my bed, where it will lay forever-

Right?

Pause.