Heavy is the cloak I wear when you go.
You drape it over my shoulders,
a promise not to forget you.
Some days it rides on your breath from mumbled
I love yous over the phone.
Some days it crushes
my own breath from my lungs.
In bed late at night I touch
the space where you lay
and imagine the weight is just your arm around me,
pulling me yet closer to you,
it’s just your body rocking against mine
until there is no weight any longer.
And I believe I can wear this cloak until you come back to me
and your gentle hands remove it,
trailing across my skin like
the whispering strands of a weeping willow,
your lips stealing kisses from mine without apology.