By chris_sewart
- 349 reads
On the bedside table is a glass
with your thumbprint on it.
I see this as I wake, from a drowning dream,
to gulp air. The lamp is still on.
Its rough orange light filters through
the oval print.
In each furrow dust has accumulated,
radiating a chalk-corpse outline.
If I examined it through a magnifying glass,
I'd reveal a field of peaked contours
a glimpse of you in a cascading dress.
It's stupid not to move the glass,
wipe away the stain, stupid.
But its different from the catalogued row
of books; pressed clothes trembling in the
walnut wardrobe; your dolphin earrings
pinned to the cork noticeboard.
One day - when the outline is too vague
and my eyes too weary - I shall carry your
evidence to the kitchen and,
before scouring it in soapy water,
kiss your thumbprint.
Taste the last of your sweat, grease and dust.
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