I can feel her, in your night clothes,
panting against the bristles
of your neck.
Where her nails once traced your lines,
I mark the contours of muscle,
the past exposed.
Her hand upon my thigh
presses a weightlessness on weight.
She opens your mouth, a deep
hollow of forgotten speech,
slides her tongue
against my throat.
I run her against my teeth,
see her look through me, feel her in the twist
of your fingers in my hair.
She's in your breath, the faint
and foreign scent of clove that marks
you as her own, the salty sheen
of sweat like brine upon your skin.
Her memory crowds this bed.
She almost seems to laugh through your lips.
Now, you should make her leave.