maer

In my memory, you are softer, edges erased. In my heart, you are bathed in sunlight, yellow warmth. I wake up loving you and when I come home, I still love you.

In my dreams, you never speak; it makes no matter, I keep your voice between the bones of my ribcage. I take it out sometimes and hold it in my hands; I caress my fingers over it, touch it to my lips that I may not forget, that I may not forget the cadence of your tongue, the lines beside your mouth. And when I have drunk myself into the very depths of despair, I tuck it back carefully inside, that I may save it from the carnage of my collapsing heart.

In my memory, you shimmer like a ghost; when I reach out for you, my hands pass through the smoke but it makes no matter. I am content with the image of you, I am content with my eyes upon yours, I am content. I could fill pages upon pages with your likeness and I do, in my dreams I do, I do. In my dreams, I lace my fingers through yours, in my dreams I once again beg you to alter that which I remember, that which I could. I wake up loving you and when I come home, I still love you.