THE STIGMATA OF YOUR TOUCH

clutching at straws
I clutch at your blouse
hold my pillow closer

pretend its you
mould the duvet
into something

reassembling you
but it’s not
you

I suffer
your absence
aching

at the intersections
of our bodies
as we sleep

my thigh across your thigh
my hand
upon your breast

my flesh
screaming for your flesh
as if your absence burns

enduring like a saint
the stigmata
of your touch