You're somewhere in Ohio right now.
You said you were leaving two days after Christmas
And that you didn't have time
For gifts or kisses.
It's still in its box
Beside my bed.
The kisses I'll never give you
Into the corners of my mouth
And come out as half smiles
So distracted by the nervous flutters in my stomach
And where to put my hands,
Noticing the buttons on your collar.
And all the minuscule dust motes
That have floated in unimportance, so serenely for centuries
Except when they caught my intense, longing, jealousy
on the outermost fringe
of your eyelashes.
All the dead skin of a hundred people touching you,
And I will never.
So in the double music
Of our conversation
And my running thoughts
I didn't ask if you'd come back.
The box rests by my pillow.
The photograph of the kitten on the front dressed as Santa
Looks at me inquisitively,
Dressed all wrong for the new year.
Misplaced among shreds of wrapping paper,
Presents opened, joy shared.
Looking out of place the morning after Christmas.
The last unadopted stray -
That no one showed up to claim.
Yeah, ...I should probably rewrap that.