I could sit and count the spaces between
my bones where you belong
and pace the room
and scream at the chair where you once sat.
But in truth I find myself missing your
cigarette kisses,
your whiskey breath.
And the way your chest moved when
you slept –
like the ocean waves that kept drowned lovers
milky white with sweet blue lips
twisted together in a mess of limbs
and bone.
And how I wish they had been us –
to keep this obsession and spare the
empty rooms
and the creeping thought beneath my skin
that your seaweed-loved body
roams the waters alone.