Missing Words

I lie in bed,
not mine,
inky firstlight
wrapping the house for a gift.
The washing machine
clunking on in the little room next door
like a sick heart.
Consider the ceiling angle, consider the floor.
I stretch
to my purse
to the sample card of your aftershave-
I always keep
your smell to nurse
me underneath the sheets
like I once did you.
Once megalithic, always marred,
are you
near or far?
Are you close to me?
A moth’s-leg-fragile slow
train of light on the floor;
shadows creeping on your back,
I waited for more.
I wait for you
with vast forever’s vagueness
and a sick heart,
and a card.

I lay before
curled against the minimum of you.
The wooden bedframe,
so close to the floor,
cradled us like the hands of sleep.
I numbered the hairs
missed by the razor
on the back of your neck
like a month of goodbye kisses,
and one goodnight.
Here is what I had-
your simple nearness
topped up and spilled out.
Here were the blankets-
waves of you,
ceaseless foaming, crashing boiling silence
against my skin.
With your hand a lazy anchor to my side
you called me closer for the last time.
Now with your face
a memory rattling around my skull,
now that my clothes
that once bloomed around your bed
haunt mine,
what I want to know is
who ever knew
the quiet wild of you?