The chill air the empty chair produces
has nothing to do with the temperature,
only the vacancy of
the seat
across from where I sit at the table,
which I fill with images of my own making,
my imagination
creating scenes
of where she is and what she is doing,
aching because I believe what
my imagination has
thought up.
It is Tuesday and I ought to be relieved
she is not there, only, I’m not,
I am as empty as her chair,
all these thoughts rattling
around in my head like a pair of dice,
dice I refuse to let spill out,
scared I will come up with snake eyes.
I’ve forgotten what she feels like,
tastes like, and even have lost a bit
of what she looks
like in the fog
of made up memories,
though I remember remembering
that she tastes as sweet
and her touch as soft
s rose pedals
across my skin.
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