this smoke.

this smoke weaves
through the sheets
on your side
of
the
bed.

and rolls
across to
mine.

two years and i thought i would have it all
figured
out.
but there still are times
when your skin
touches mine,
and i

tremble.

the blankets quake
with want
and hope
that you would be there

to warm them.

to bring bliss
to the mattress.

to bring comfort
to these cold springs.

that scream us.

they spell out
m-e-m-o-r-i-e-s
of nights we acted passion.

and nights we moved away
from the dip
in the middle.

separating it,
and making it cold.

two years,
and i still cant explain,
why the curves
of your palms
make my skin hot.

why the cracks in your
lips
bring goosebumps.

why your laugh,

breaks through tissues,
spilling

soft

throughout
my
ears.

two years,

and the bugs in my stomach
have not faultered.
they have not
grown immune
to your swift words
that are spoken
as easy

as this smoke.