Occasionally I'll
see her voice, in the current, up in the air
and a emphatic whisper washes behind my ear
like a stable vacuum, it is static.

And perhaps, even sometimes, in the street--
I'll watch the shadow of her figure.
And see the sweat
trickle
off her brow
onto her cheek.
Like a clogged siphon, it seeps.

Often, I will catch a glimpse of an
alabaster shoulder
or two.
Like drywall, they creak.

And always, but not at all, I sometimes
hold my breath long enough, and hear my heartbeat.
If I hold it longer, I hear yours.

Maybe I'm too accustomed to your being.  I’m too forgetful of mine.