two

you have left a space in my bed
for yourself. lying beside it, fingers
stroking linen, will never be enough.
my delight, at finding a single
golden hair, splayed out on the
pillow; like a stolen thread it
curls with lust. scouring
the bedsheets, in search of your
smell, the shampoo that even
with ten washes will not escape
my senses. lying still, in silence
with one another, drawing your
outline with a single finger.
the way your hairs stand on
end, like hot static, cold palms.
you twitch as though you are
falling from a dream. these
leaving blues i get, this
quiet mourning; daybreak
not even ripping through the
curtains yet