I think there was a part of me
who knew her
before I knew the sun setting
wasn’t permanent. Maybe
even back to the seventh day:
God rested, and in God’s dreams,
she was tracing with her lips
the line on my chest
that my brassiere cuts into
when I wear it too long.
And God did not wake up
from this nightmare,
because it wasn’t one.
It was good.

When I close my eyes,
the light from the stained-green glass light bulb
still illuminates my skin.
She is drawing circles
on my chest. I do not
touch her. To touch her is to shatter
what we have left.
She made that clear from the beginning.
“I don’t need you to touch me.
I just need you there. To feel
your heartbeat. To hear
your breath hitch. To taste
you even after you’re gone.”
I don’t know if she remembers, but 
sometimes, I smell the damp air,
and I remember how her tongue tasted.
It lingers, and I wish I could compare the two.
Though, now, I wonder if her taste would burn
like alcohol, or holy water.
For her, I would burn again.