Against my cheek he placed a kiss–
a lingering moment of bliss–
just there, full and gentle, his chin 
with morning beard brushing my skin–
all stubble and flannel in this

still-dark goodbye. Breakfast I’d miss 
with him, leaving coffee for his
crossword, taking a kiss the wind  
against my cheek

couldn’t shift. The ghost of his lips’
remain years later after this
last morning, press again when
the barber angles scissors to trim
my temple, just there where his hand rests
against my cheek.