The bottle caps litter my windowsill
and remind me of nights with you.
I breathe you in and try to hold on.
Even while we're slipping.
A laminated card sits on my desk
preserving text neatly in plastic.
I think of words to send
and hope they will arrive
with a bit of me between the spaces.
The vibration of your voice
fills my room and I remember
your handwriting.
Something that feels so lovely
is missing but I dream of running fingers
through locks of hair.
The sun on my face.
Grainy photographs.
Light on buildings
and the way your bathroom felt.
Looking at sheets while time slides
into morning.
Tree branches cradling
something that will be lost
and I wonder
if you still like the sound of my voice
and if you miss me.
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