I'll turn to face you
and your skin like lilies in bloom
will swallow up the sunlight
a small acknowledgment of existence.
You will not stir, nor will you blink
and I'll wait to see the ocean behind
silent seafoam.
Our house is warmed by the breath I have held for days
and by the sound of quiet music.
Your handwriting is strewn across these walls
your favourite colour staining my jeans.
And there's something here
the taste of your smile
the weight of my laugh.
And there's something here
the touch of your fingertips
the slipping of consciousness.
Am I at rest or resigned in my melancholia?
I would follow you
until your shadow casts long
until your bones go stale.
Bound by the sheets beneath us
bound by the sense of calmness.
And there's something here
and you hold it so tenderly
in your small, rough hands.

- a.a.j // July 2021