If I close my eyes I can still feel your hands on my face, your lips on my lips. I can still taste you and it should come as no surprise that I miss you. X marks on the calendar days until I can see you again. We have this sweet subtle silent understanding of each other. We’ve mapped out each others bodies in our minds so that when we are apart we can imagine things exactly how they are.
You are the smell of hot showers. The smell of fresh towels. The smell of clean bed sheets. The smell of snow storms. The smell of Thanksgiving. The smell of beer and pot and Friday nights. You are the smell of a vanilla massage bar. Or at least these are the smells that will always remind me of you.
You are the sound of drum beats. You are the sound of city buses. You are the sound of falling rain. You are the buzzing sound of a tattoo machine. You are the sound of silence in bed. You are the sound of snoring that surprisingly enough I miss. You are the sound of opening cans. You are the sound of the flick of a lighter. You are the sound of static on the phonograph. These are the sounds that remind me of you.
You are the fresh taste of a cold beer. You are the taste of a sweet tongue. You are the taste of breakfast. You are the taste of mashed potatoes and Turkey Clubs. You are the taste of strong minty liquor. You are the taste of Chinese food, Italian food, Mexican food. You are the taste of chocolate. You are the taste of sugar, sweet and addicting. These are the tastes that remind me of you.
You are the image of a sleeping giant. You are the image of buffaloes in wide vast fields. You are the image of sunsets. You are the image of night skies. You are every star I wish on. You are the image of quiet city streets. You are the image of bustling busy streets. You are the image of a Greyhound bus. You are the image of maps, globes and directions.
You are the feel of trickling hot water. You are the feel of a warm bed, a warm body. You are the feel of hot breath. You are the feel of a massage. You are the feel of towels fresh from the dryer. You are the feel of the vibrations from riding a bike. You are the feel of soft hands. You are the feel of silverware and coffee mugs. You are the feel of a type writer. You are the feel or new vinyl records. I touch these things and think of you.
I carry a ghost of you with me, a memory until you are with me again. Ghosts aren’t people who have passed on, they’re the people who you think about when they’re not around. The people who you always want to show and tell everything. Your ghost rides with me on every bicycle ride. Your ghost sleeps with me each night. I can see our ghosts talking on the porch of that bar. I can see our ghosts riding bikes on a warm November afternoon. I can see our ghosts pushing and pulling and twisting and turning underneath bed sheets. I can see our ghosts holding hands and walking in cities. I can see our ghosts kissing, I can hear them saying I love you. I carry your heart in mine.
Submitted by Elise Haley.
Random Daze theme by Polaraul
