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By Liz Date: 2003 Mar 23 Comment on this Work [[2003.03.23.05.28.11340]] |
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His clothes are in our room his jacket is still slung over a chair in the hall his cologne hangs heavy in the air and in the empty impression on the other side of my bed. The shattered glass of last night sparkles in the stark morning light I cut my finger as I clean up the shards and when I lick the wound I taste whiskey; for an instant I can taste him, smell him, and the yearning to be held fast, locked agaisnt his chest is visceral, it hurts to live and breathe without him and I would give anything is we were not broken. |