All That’s Left
The imaginary brush of windy lips against your neck
The chill crawling up your back, prickling down your arms
You will find me there
The soft afterimage of forgotten fingertips on your skin
The hand you feel lightly grasping yours in the darkness
That disappears when you close yours around it
You will find me there
The place in your mind you’re afraid to venture to
The fingers twisted around your heart like vines
You will find me there
The persistently awkward lump in the back of your throat
The pit sinking into the darkness of your stomach
That seems to burrow on endlessly
You will find me there
You will find me