The ghost of you lingers in my bed. The memory of you curls around me. The sheets have been washed again and again but I catch traces of your scent in the thin strange morning. You are in my head and burn like acid in my veins. I breathe your breath like I’m drowning.
We lay with our foreheads touching, our lips a whisper apart, eating words.
The night is long and sweltering and your hands trace lazy spirals along my back, count the railroad knobs of my spine. I reach for you in the dark and hug the quilt into your shape. I swim in the deep twilight before dawn and melt and dissolve and lose myself. Your arms wrap me in the muddled place between sleep and life. I have tossed and turned for you for hours, sweat radiant on my brow, running between my breasts and my thighs.
When I turn the pillow to cool my cheeks the imprint of your face presses against mine.
This bed is empty without you in it.
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