by Cori Laatsch



Smells like fresh rain on the pavement

and old, dusty books,

                    with yellowed pages and loose binding. 

It tastes like bread too stale to eat

and day-old coffee,

                    forgotten overnight, found cold in the sink.

It sounds like the ringing of silence in my ears

and distant laughter,

                    of those happier than I, heard from miles away.

It looks like the frozen hands of a clock

and me,

                    curled up in bed

without you,

                    curled up with her. 

It feels like the ghost of your arms around my body

and emptiness, 

                    like my heart bled dry. 

It feels like my soul folding in on itself. 

It feels like a longing for what I once had.

It is me,

                    missing me,

                                        when I’m with you.


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