Your absence drapes the room thick
as syrup, a slick shadow lingers.
I think of your green eyes, two
lanterns swaying in a midnight fog.
Your lips, soft bullets, quiet thunder,
crack open the moment I close
my mind\'s window. Your hands—small
churches where I kneel, your feet
slender compasses, unmapping my
loss. I try to carve the memory
of your softness into the stone
of this moment, but it won\'t keep.
The air here tastes almost bitter
without the salt of your pulse,
without the blood in your gaze
lifting my shape out of shadow.