POETRY | INTIMACY

Morning Ghost of You

Memories that refuse to fade will intrude with others

Photo by Masaaki Komori on

Morning Ghost of You

The sheets are warm,
weight beside me familiar —

his careful touch
unknowingly excavating
what lies beneath.

Under comforter, legs tangled,
skin humming from touch
that should be enough.

Should be.

The room smells like skin,
like sleep,
like someone else
settling into spaces
you left vacant.

I inhale deeply,
press my body into strong arms
that hold without hesitation.

My body is here.
My body is safe.

And yet —

Memory is a slow ache,
a tickle dulled by time
but sharp enough
to make me flinch.

I only miss you once I move on.
Once joy edges the ache to periphery.
Once I forget to brace myself —
before thoughts of…