When my mind wanders to thoughts of you
(it so often does, you know)
they aren’t the most obvious daydreams;
you are never on a white horse,
shirtless on some sunset beach or
feeding me chocolate-dipped strawberries.

Instead I dream of the littlest things
about you –
the sound you make when something excites you,
your reaction to a joke.

Things that shouldn’t matter
pop into my head as I wait in a line (you call them queues):
the way you drive
how you eat an apple
the temperature of your skin.

When I can’t be with you I pass the time
conjuring the smell of you –
not cologne (you don’t wear it) –
The way you smell when I wake up
in the middle of the night
to nestle closer to you.

I love just to sit and remember you,
from the weight of your arms around me
to the way your hands move
your lips too, how they form those
three splendid words.

I could spend hours imagining you
entirely
and when I come to,
shaken from my reverie,
I could spend hours more
counting the goosebumps
your ghost has given me.