It’s been ten days
since you grazed your fingers along my spine, kissed my freckled cheeks; that I ran my fingers along the landscape of your white pigmentation as if a world map – my fingertips inured to any other sensation but you.
It’s been ten days
since you held my fiery head between your trembling gardener’s hands; since I wiped away your lacerating words as they liquefied into saltwater.
It’s been ten days
since I collected my scattered clothes, my jettisoned heels, my black leather purse from your carpet, picked up all emotional baggage, and did the unthinkable as you asked me to do. Went, far and further – aimlessly driving, and moving, and standing still all the while.
It’s been ten nights
that I have spent tossing and turning, contemplating what if? and what could? and what would? and how? and when? and why?
It’s been ten days
that I have wished to hear your subtle breathless snore next to me, your unfettered grunt, your dry whisper in my ear; but there, here, is only the unforgiving Atlantic wind, the rain, all the rain, and the narrow eyed seagulls on the power pole.
It’s been ten days
that I have felt pieces of you in everything that crosses my vision – you’re in the watermelon’s seeds cause you hated them; you’re in my summer’s dress cause you loved me in it; you’re in the white candles cause you always lit them for us.
It’s been ten days
since I showered the last of your touch away, lost your traces from my skin, knowing I will never get them back, never feel your graze again.
It’s been ten days of madly throwing stones into a desolate tideland, waiting for the sea to return
& there will be another ten, and another ten, and another.
words by Murielle M. – muriellemueller.wordpress.com
Photo by Markos Mant on Unsplash
