When I allow myself to think of
the first mornings we spent together,
I think about how you kissed my shoulder
with sleep still in your eyes;

I remember watching the the city blocks
whimsically turn to fields
and back to blocks again
from the train window,
on my way home.
The train rides were never
a clear picture
as much as they were a feeling,
as thoughts of you consumed me.

I thought about your small,
hot apartment,
the grand weight of our wallets,
empty.
The exaggerated love/lust
as our bellies swished,
full with cheap *****.

Contrary to how it sounds,
this is not a love letter
as much as it is a lament for a person
that once meant everything,
and now is another stranger
on crowded city sidewalk.

I no longer yearn to find you
in some corner of the world,
with arms that have again learned  
how to hold me,
no, this is not a love letter.

I just want to think of you sometimes
and hold on to the parts of you
that already felt like they were mine.

Once again,
I try to remember your scent;
there is no use,
it’s already gone.