The Memory of Something

The print of your hand inside of mine is present

between thought and memory the way pillow folds

crease my skin as I sleep, the business of it silent,

perhaps unintended, but the evidence presents

itself upon waking, proven true as I run fingers

down my cheek, see the imprint reflected

when I lean over the bathroom sink to brush

my teeth, my hair, review myself in the mirror,

strange and familiar, in the early morning light.

I feel tension when the silence between us stretches

to the point of snapping, the sting sharp and brief

forgotten in the flurry of the busyness that consumes

the way mold overtakes old lemons in the fridge.

It is only when silence draws me back like an anchor

to the breath, to pulse, to flow of blood, that I

remember the you that is deeply etched within me.