You haunt me.
A thousand versions of this narrative has been told, sung, written, painted. A former lover’s touch, felt everywhere and in everything.
My winter comforter is stained with your kiss.
My long hoodie is brushed with your breath.
My white robe is ruined by your touch.
You’re the back of a head when I’m waiting for the subway.
You’re the voice that calls the pet name for my puppy.
You’re in the moccasins I will never buy again because your place was ice cold.
You’re in the handles I have to look twice at.
You’re in the dishes I learned to cook differently because of you.
You’re at the dive bar you dragged me to on my birthday.
You’re at the restaurant I dragged you to because we never went out.
You’re guiding the pen I write with.
You’re in the new movie on Netflix I can’t watch anymore.
You’re in the curve of my hips and the breath down my neck.
You’re in the green tinge on my phone that shows water.
You’re the shine that tears leave behind on my face.
You’re the smothered cries I muffle into my pillow.
Yesterday, I walked alone the roads we walked together. And,
I still can’t walk in your footsteps. Can you?