You get used to someone else’s company their quiet presence
in the garden a warm indentation in their pillow
when you wake at night & they are gone you get used to
the scent of their shampoo lingering on post-shower steam
the vulnerability of socks curled inward on themselves
strewn haphazardly in the vicinity of the hamper
you get used to the sound of another person’s breath
even when it is impossible to hear & the possibility that
they might come to you at any time with a piece of news
too interesting to hoard to their mail littering the table
the coolness of their coat when they come indoors
after shoveling snow the crackling of a secret butterscotch
& whispered nonsense of late-night dreams (when you stay up
reading later than you should) the sense of will be
& of has been a cup of coffee cooling on a kitchen counter
& the subtle click of a discreetly-closed door
© 2020 by Hannah Six
No comments:
Post a Comment