I woke up this morning and sensed the air
mingle with the spaces between my fingers,
the weight of your absence
like a twenty pound blanket I sometimes carry
as extra skin
when I long to feel less fragile
and more oxytocin, more real
and less repellent.
I round up my knees
to cradle the present,
give it the human touch it needs
in moments of discomfort so quiet
that I hear the birds outside my window
breathe in faintest echos
like the words my lips speak silently
across an empty pillow.