I long for your shinbones, your hair, the planes of your face-
even the air you breathe.
I often find myself moving through the rooms you used to inhabit,
searching for the remains of your soul
where you left it, hung over the edge of a banister
or draped on top of a chair.
The kitchen lies untouched, your coffee mug still half-full of water
and cream. Even the sink is missing you.
Some nights I dance alone to the radio with the candles lit,
my arms surrounding the shape of your absence.
It is not enough to dance for two
when there is only one.