The Secret

behind everything i say
and under my tongue
is the taste of you

i spend my time writing your name
on the back of my hand
(and i’ve been aching for you
sleeping alone again)
and i’m sick

the blame is fading
and we’re left stinging
and without
(but not wanting
(or maybe just
not hoping))

and now my photo album looks
like someone cut me out of a picture
and cut you out of a picture
and pasted them together

but
i still manage
to miss
the way
my chin
rested
on your shoulder
like the puzzle
we made
one evening

and all the others
have gone
and i can’t smell
or hear
or feel them
anymore
but you
remain
inside my clothes
somehow

and i suspect
that when i touch him
i’ll be touching you

and i suspect
that when i love him
i’ll be missing you