Strange skies often remind yellow
Strokes and dots of grey
And it is difficult to know why
I sometimes miss you so
The air outside bites harder and my stomach
Is somewhat warmer those
Special days.
Soft and deep and lost empty
I remember you
Do I? Was it
Your ear or his finger
Your eye or her elbow
Your voice or my own
Picture?
And when the lights vanish
Turned into ink I realize
How little you and I were and
That’s when my fingers
Spin, rushing through the air
Till they’re stopped
by your dry hand
slapping my hairy pot
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