Here and Gone

I am curious about the hollow of your neck.  If it tastes of earth

The pulse under my breath on which I pour myself and spread

To know who you are. To catch you when you aren’t thinking

When you gasp for breath and find me instead

It is still grey on the outside, though I have colors bursting under my skin

It is warm around this place above my breast where I start to feel a throb

The scent on my skin reminiscent of  seconds and minutes desirous of years

Your half a smile meets the other half tossed its way

I am not good at letting go. I have saved the twinkle in your eye

From that day when you splashed water and wouldn’t let me go

I also have the squeeze of your hands in my fingers

And the smell of belonging when I buried my head in your shirt

Not that you are gone. Not that you are here

Not that I let you go. Not that I held on

Not that I lived you. Not that I died

Not that I can’t do without you. Not that I will