I sit beside your resting body,
on a blanket still carrying the faint warmth
of hands that once folded it.
Above you, the clovers I planted
have spread into a quiet blanket,
their leaves trembling in the breeze
as if they breathe in place of you.
From the corner of my eye,
a woman approaches
her incense crackles and smolders,
the smoke winding through the air
like a fragile thread between worlds.
The scent strikes me
not just recognition,
but the ache of you,
as if your breath had passed through the flame.
My chest tightens;
for a moment I swear you’ve returned.
For an instant,
we were back in my house
you were looking through my jewelry boxes,
picking favorites to keep,
pulling silly outfits from my closet,
your laughter filling the room.
You held up a shirt you liked,
asked if you could have it.
I said yes.
Now it rests in my dresser,
returned to me after you died.
I pull it out when I miss you
the fabric heavy with silence,
threaded with both your absence
and your touch.
For an instant,
nothing has happened to you.
Time fractures
and you are here,
until the air clears
and I am left
with only smoke
and silence.
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