Now that being with you can only be memory, perhaps I shall write about you and if the burden of inhibition will lift, and if the shyness bred into me by centuries of women who never spoke their hearts truths, fades into the remnants of a handful of dust after the wind’s careless toss. I will attempt to pin the dazzling, fleeting dream that was us, on paper. All I want to do in this minute that seems empty, is to step behind my eyelids and glide into the field of memories where your smile is a thing I can touch and the faint remains of your favourite brand of whiskey linger on your tongue when I tilt my head to taste it- just before dawn.
I miss you. Three words, stark and ordinary, they are all my life is confined to- missing you.
Even though it seems it was this morning I rolled across the bed to stroke your chest slowly with open palm, just before sending slithering fingers to your back- their favourite drum. Yet two cycles of forever have burned out since the orange, November sunrise my eyes last met yours. I wonder now, what you will think when you read this. Would you feel betrayed or will that rare smile bloom because you know I am not capable of forgetting to write about you?