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
curled up in bed
curled up with her.
It feels like the ghost of your arms around my body
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,
when I’m with you.