Your love is lingering.
My imagination alone dangerously remembers—“us.”
My heart wants yours back.
To touch you with my thoughts makes my skin ache with jealousy
and my hands restless—
God how they want to run themselves up your arms,
into the sleeves of your t-shirt
tracing the contours of your shoulders, the nape of your neck,
your skin a map memorized by my fingertips.
I can catch your scent with these memories,
inhaling as if my lips were at your earlobes
and I could leave my desire there with my exhale.
Where we would have sighed together,
I sigh alone—
with memories that tease with an unkind intensity.
The love that lingers for you
is riddled with desire,
but confined to gratitude—
thankful for having had you at all
to stir up fear
and coax it into excitement.
I’m grateful for the parts of me
I wouldn’t have seen without you,
like an elixir of truth into my ability to love,
to let in—
to let go.
I’ve let my hands go from yours,
but not my heart.
Its been undone—
revealing an immense capacity to feel,
and I will collect our memories
as now a witness to where I
and nothing at all
and let the repressed truths
from the depths of my being
shine for having been kissed so sweetly by your acceptance
and your love will linger in my growing to love myself
and one day—another again.
The Empty Winter of Our Love.
Author: Tiffany Anderson
Editor: Yoli Ramazzina
Photo: Author’s own.
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