It’s been two months, and I still can’t close the blinds
or tear my watering eyes away from the door.
I imagined your arrival so many times that
my mind has started confusing it with a memory.
I’d picture you standing there in my living room
with your hair tied loosely in a bun, and your petite legs
peeking out from underneath the hem of my tee shirt.
Everyone tells me that it gets easier.
That I’ll forget you over time, but I don’t want to.
They say that the first month without you is the hardest,
but I’ve found that every day that passes is harder
to survive than the one before.
There’s something missing along my neck
just between my ear and shoulder.
Years ago, that place held your head as you slept
through a drive from Augusta to Boston.
Now it cups my pillow and occasionally hosts
the hands of a one night stand as they wrap angrily around,
trying to squeeze the life back into me.
Last night, I erased our names from the corner of my mirror
where I had written them in red lipstick hoping it would
stain the glass permanently. It didn’t. I wonder
if it’s the meat or muscle memory that my heart is made of
which holds you, stained, inside of me.