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Three years since
I last saw your face,
the back of your head
as you descended the stairs
from my tiny apartment.
Since then, a part of me
has always tried to find
you in the vast space
left all around me
by your absence.
As lovers, we walked
a narrow line, wobbling
this way and that,
intoxicated on the moment,
me on the scent of
your clean bedsheets,
you on the smell of
my hair on your pillow.
And now, having drunk other wines,
I forget the way you smelled,
the fragrance of your touch.
I have forgotten
to think of you so much.
But in your absence,
you still exist - waiting,
like a dormant disease
couched in my liver,
just beneath my heart,
to drag me down with you.
There is no telephone,
no sponsor to call
to tell me not to indulge
in your memory.
You were my first drink,
and this -
 this
will be the last.
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