At this point, it’s not him
I miss, not his back of
red-brown constellations,
but my own atmosphere
I knew naked in front
of his flat screen TV.
It’s not his goose-neck car
orange and black enormity,
but the happy surrender
of the passenger seat,
not driving, not road-thinking.
Clear-minded, I miss not
making plans on Saturdays
and on Sunday mornings.
It’s not his tongue,
or its softness, but
the fullness of my mouth
at its opening.
First published in Poet’s Haven.
Sarah Thursday 