Sometimes, in the blinding spring afternoon,

It's not so much a feeling of heartache, of "I miss you"

But a feeling of aimlessness, of empty hands,

And a need for a corner of my world to feel like home.

There are loose-ended Friday afternoons

When my body wants to to lie around

For however long in bed, falling in and out of sleep

Writing words on your back with the tip of my finger,

And scrawling plans for the summer

With sleepy cursive

That mimics the curve of your chest.

As for me, there are scars on my body

That you don't know about.

You may have uncovered them,

If you had taken a breath

And let the frenetic energy

That was always in your chest

lie. still.