I am making love to the ghost of you,
blindfolded by the gauze of your pillow
instead of meeting the gaze of your eyes,
hands clutching myself instead of your thighs,
crying out your name and hearing only
silence. I am embracing history,
what I can conjure of our moments past,
the length and breadth of you that could not last.
I pull to myself the absence of your hips,
impale these sheets as if they were your lips.
Oh that I could breathe again your breath; instead,
this fragile passion’s one more little death.
My heart, or what is left, remains but true:
I am making love to the ghost of you.