I woke up one day and breathed in your cologne
even though only one side of the bed was warm
even though only one side of the bed left
the shadows of dreams and fingerprints of nightmares.
And later, when my bed is made and both sides are cold and pressed,
I heard your laugh when I pushed my
hair behind my ear, distant.
close.
Soft, even though my windows are locked and frozen shut.
Evident, even though my breakfast
is a black cup of coffee
and humming to myself.
But I put my hair back in front of my ears and go to work.
Where I taste your words
with breaths in and out.
I turn them over, sweet, truthful,
unlike my black coffee that I use
to drown out, to block out,
to
close
out
what is true on my tongue,
between my teeth and sitting on my lips,
ever whispering without sound.
And I can't stop breaking apart your
words in my mouth
so I can taste each
syllable.
But they are dull, old tastes that I beg to stay fresh,
but you are not here.
And I cannot
swallow
your
perfect
words.
They tease and tickle my throat.
sweet.
But unreachable, no matter
how many times I try to unravel
the truths on my tongue.
By the end of the day, on my couch-I am tired from your laugh
between the strands of my hair,
but an unreachable shadow;
and I am tired from your words
that are sugary and ****
and distant because I put them
in my mouth months ago.
And even though I want to close my eyes,
I do not.
Because your face on the pillow next to me
taunts me behind my eyelids
and your fingers on my belly
are just beyond reach when I lay down
and your breath in my ear
is too cold on my ear.
And if I let it ,your memory will
never let me live.