When everything became straight, dead lines, your heartbeat (the sound I call home) for example, I began to wonder.

I wonder about all the words you were going to say.

What other thoughts did and would you have had. Were they dyed a pretty hue, a blush of pink or inky blue?

Now, does your voice pretend not exist in your voicebox.

Because, your throw your back laughter is still in the wink of the smile, I will crinkle someday.
The dips and curves of your voice snuggle close against the ragged and rough edges of my mind.
It will do, it will have to do.
Beneath my closed eyelids, my heartbeat flutters and hiccups for, I still remember the night your lips lightly pressed on the the left rib of my ribcage.

As much as it is hard to admit, a sliver of my being lives for you.
And perhaps, that is the greatest love anyone could imagine.

I remember how sweet your lips,
your cupid's bow,
the very corner of your mouth was
after we made a mess in the kitchen.

(Flour dotted cheeks and noses, the great big wooden spoon sitting dully in the sink, egg-shells laying lonely in the pastel pink ceramic bowl I insisted on buying.)

We made lemon tarts?