Your kisses still burn inside me.
A candleflame with the heat of a thousand suns.
At Night, your voice echoes through my hollow chest.
Bouncing from throat to ear to fingertips before settling again.
The memory of tomorrow sobs itself back into being.
Words considered true are now only considered.
Nakedness now only exposes where it once revealed.
There is oxygen
And there is nitrogen
and the smell of cut grass but there is no air.
Wondering has evolved from why to how.
I mourn for something that still exists.
Because it still exists.
Helpless, raw and wanting but existing nonetheless,
in shadows that grow like the cold spot on the floor.
Love, in spite of you.
In spite of me.
In spite of us.
Left to be on the other side of forever.
These words are not me.
They are something altogether better.
They will be caressed by your hands.
Read by your lips.
And then put to rest.
I am the shell of me,
wishing I were these words that I could be hidden away.
Put into your box to sleep.
The truth of tomorrow beckons me and I fear to answer.
I refuse to answer.
My days are spent in between yesterday and tomorrow.
In a place where your taste still lingers like the smell on my pillow.
Holding words that are not you and remembering when they were.
