There are still photographs of you asleep in my bed,
with smears of crushed coffee beans washing over every faded corner;
I’ve looked at them so much it’s almost a surprise
to wake up to an empty pillow.
I always wanted to be a weather forecaster before I grew up
and realized I was completely unprepared for the storm that was you.
There aren’t enough synonyms in my most trustworthy thesaurus
to even come close to the language my thighs make with your hips
or antonyms angry enough to express how not happy I am
now that you’re gone. Yesterday my bloodstream
held a moment of silence for all the months
since you’d been inside me. Every red and white cell did the math
and eventually reached the conclusion that it had been far too many.
There are crawl spaces in my bones
I didn’t even know were there until you hid yourself in them.
I like to think that even though you left,
we still go to bed at the same time
and maybe, just maybe, your arms still remember what it felt like
to wrap around mine in sleep.