Your nipple, fat and wide as storybook snowflakes,
the weak winter sun dappling your skin,
candles, and warm tea hanging the room like a cafe;
it is before you leave. The last time we touched,
the small of your back red where you took my hand
and pressed it into your bones, moments before you came.
You do not wear clothes when you last see me.
You do not say good-bye, or hint, or smile.
I remember your right hand was on your thigh,
your left hand held your right breast,
your eyes dialed beyond my frequency.
You left no note and every so often I find another hole
in my life that you made, buried under some pile
of fat mail. Gone: your favorite pen. The picture of us
at the Canyon, your Jest, your Swiss Army Knife.
