There are remnants of you here and there: the fingerprint on my coffee table, a hair on my sweater, a bruise on my thigh from your needy index finger and thumb. I smell you in my pillowcase; the smell of your mildly-scented shampoo and the sweat from the nape of your neck. Every time I pull back my sheets, I anticipate your shoulder-blades and the dimples in your lower back. You’re not here, but the ghost of you hangs over me like a thick fog.
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