it pours outside,
water seeping from the sky.
this time last year, life was different
the weather was the same.
this time last year, my heart held onto
a transitional affection
thinking that was love.
funny now, to think i thought that was love.
a feeling that lasted, ebbed and flowed,
for no more than two seven day’s time.
this time last year, my heart was a cynic
not believing in lasting love.
not believing in other halves.
not believing in exactly
what i have.
the way your skin smells when i lean in—
the way your skin feels beneath my fingertips—
the way your skin tastes when i kiss it—
and the way your lips feel against my lips.
laying in bed sheltered from the cold,
your glasses off, the day old
you’re so close to my senses.
i’d say anything you were curious to hear,
without any my usual defenses.
i miss you when your eyelids close,
and i try to get mine to not do the same.
i miss you when your grip loosens,
your stare hides,
your breath slows.
i miss you when you’re not around,
more than perhaps you’ll ever know.