Tonight you wrap another shirt that smells like him
around your pillow. His whispers return to you
in the wrinkles of your bed sheets
but your body is still cold, frozen in all the times
you used to think he really loved you.

His face, that expression he used to give you
when you waved good-bye,
is plastered into every concrete sidewalk,
every moving shadow, and
his cologne is on the breath of every flower.
Still, you run away whenever the memories
of his “hellos” flood back,
and you crawl under the bed sheets.

Sometimes he calls your name in public
and you have no other choice but to
shake it off like unexpected rainfall.
Those smiles were never directed toward you,
but you return them, regardless.
Your greetings a bar of wet soap.

At night you wrestle with the idea of his smell
on the pillow of another woman,
while all along you knew you were not the only one,
but kept opening his door
as if he was the only home you had ever known.

Though your body may be cold,
sleep without sheets,
listen only to the moon
for it, too, is alone.