I can still smell you on my skin,
and each time it happens,
I try to hold on so
that I don’t forget
the taste of your lips,
the scratch of your cheek against mine,
the beat of your heart against my ear.

a dream in a day.

Maybe it was just that–
a photo of what could be,
one we will always carry.

Like a shoebox of letters
sitting on a high closet shelf,
we will take out that day
and remember every inch,
every touch and whisper and pancake,
the warmth of our mouths and bodies
floating in that sea of fantasy.

And then we’ll close the box
because looking too long
hurts too much.

I miss you.
And probably every day
from now on.



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