There is a hint of you here,
In these walls,
The smell of you suspended mid-flight,
Teasing me, like a cruel trick, there but not quite.
I open the windows, I let the world in to clear the air and yet all I welcome in is futility. Every breeze bathing these walls in more of you.
How do I put into words the feeling that is making my spine tingle?
How is it that someone that was a stranger to my senses now occupies every sense present?
I lay my head against my pillow and there you are again, lingering in these sheets, weaved through these threads.
I want to pull away,
But I keep pulling closer,
Wrestling between the logic of my heart and the want for more.
For just another second of this.
The sheets come off,
the machine tells me a cycle ends in forty-five minutes.
But you have rubbed off on me.
There is a hint of you against my skin.
Not so much as a touch between us and yet I am bathed in it.
I rinse myself, I scrub incessantly.
The sheets lay drying, the wind sweeps in for a final breath.
It is gone,
You are, with the setting sun.
There are new sheets on my bed.
I have cleansed my body and yet you remain.
I fear you will.
At best you are my muse, a creative fuel, but I fear the worst.
There may be a hint of something more.
I fail to put in words, for how could a stranger come to be so familiar.
You are still here.
Your laughter echoes.
Not in the walls.
Not on my sheets.
Not on my skin.
It echoes within.
I fail to make sense of it, but I fear you are more than a muse, a moment.
You are a memory.