I miss the sound of his voice,
the low timbre, the quiet growl
spoken softly into the phone,
into my ear,
that puff of breath
that tickles with each hard consonant.
I miss the heat from his skin
through the fabric of his shirt when he held me close.
I understand, now, the songs which croon
of one last time,
of once before you go.
I wasn’t offered that last kiss.
that last lingering mix of warmth and salt,
of pleasure and tears
that says goodbye.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC
I miss the sound of his voice,
the low timbre, the quiet growl
spoken softly into the phone,
into my ear,
that puff of breath
that tickles with each hard consonant.
I miss the heat from his skin
through the fabric of his shirt when he held me close.
I understand, now, the songs which croon
of one last time,
of once before you go.
I wasn’t offered that last kiss.
that last lingering mix of warmth and salt,
of pleasure and tears
that says goodbye.
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