His Body, My Regret

I miss your shirt. It was a faithful soldier

holding the line against my ache.

Now I must surrender,

and we must have our days, and I must dream

combing through basement memories, scraps of you—

your muttered melodies and your casual grin,

your affection cascading carelessly behind you—

things you do not even know I own.

The smoke thickens. Your thick hair dries,

your hand passing over it a message: Your time is up.

And yet I cannot forget you, my lonely ghost,

your fragile eyes beholding your wild center

and drawing back, terrified

by the violence of your need—

for what,

even you do not know.