Body Heat

This morning I opened my eyes
To the glare of the morning sun
And the whir of a ceiling fan
Cutting like a knife through the silence.

I reached over and felt the spot--
The creases still there, the mattress still hot--
The you-shaped indent
Which I had come to take
For granted.

The covers feel like heavy silk chains
And I suffocate
On the memories of bygones and
Essence of you
That still fills this room.

Last night, I dialed your number
(Fingers trembling, ever so hesitantly, eyes aglow--)
Your voice, refreshing as the gentle wisp
Of a summer breeze
Answered, "Hello?"

I don't believe, in the years past,
Not for bad news, or prank calls, or telemarketers,
I have ever hung up the phone
Quite so fast.

I haven't touched my apartment
In the months gone by;
Haven't ventured outside, no--
I remain on standby,
Sleeping by the phone,
And sleeping alone,
In hopes that you will give some reply.

It's desperate, I know.
A hole of self-pity, stupid and naive
That continues to grow
Since you've taken your leave.

So I drown my sorrows in
The empty bottles of Patron,
and Molly Ringwald movies,
and soulful Boston songs
("I closed my eyes, and she slipped away..."
When did we begin to slip away?)

And I wait
and wait
and wait.