141.

you used to say such particular things to me
leaving me notes that I still have stuck in my head, repeating
like the words to the songs we listened to the first time you got me high.
we were anomalous.
you were the only one who left that distinctive wrinkle pattern
in my sheets, cradled into the crook of me, folded
like seven years gone by and the build-up and the let-down
and the little imprints still lingering on my palms
from holding your hair while we slept
and listening to your breath song.
I memorized it back then, and even still
no one else's sounds the same.

sometimes I wonder where you are now, whether
you are making lines in someone else's clean-pressed sheets
whether you even read any of this anymore
but I think there will always be at least a smallish fraction of me
that is in love with you, some nook or cranny of my heart
that still pumps your blood vicariously

I think years will continue to pass
and there will still be mornings or moments
when I feel the ghost of you pressing into my hollow curves
and there was a space that only you could fill
and it will stay vacant, I imagine.