You should come by sometime soon. 
Tell me all about where you’ve been. 
Have you run into John Prine yet?
Smoked that 9-mile long cigarette with him?
I still love you. I know you heard me say it
in my head this morning when I woke up.
You should come by. I have your slippers.
They’re in my bedroom closet.
Probably need to check them for spiders first,
not that a recluse could hurt you.
Your pajama shirt is in a large baggie,
third drawer down in my dresser.
Still smells like you,
or I think it still does–I haven’t opened it for awhile
because I didn’t want to use it all up.
You should come by. Read me one of your stories.
I haven’t changed all that much,
lost some weight, gotten grayer and less social,
still love you.
I thought you were on the porch a few nights ago.
I thought I smelled cigarette smoke when I was in bed.
I waited for your shadow in the doorway
until I couldn’t stay awake anymore.
I sleep on your side of the bed now,
but I wouldn’t mind moving over
if you decided to come by.

*after Gabrielle Calvocoressi’s “Miss you” poems