Missing

I miss the way the curve
Of your spine fitted exactly
Into the waiting space
In the tumble of my bedclothes.
I could count your ribs
On the knuckles of one hand,
A litany, where I wasn't ready
For the chill of your waning affection.
I sought a secret part of you, the jut
Of your collarbone, the crook
Of fingers, where only I
Could print my possession
With the point of my tounge;
mine
mine
But it didn't come. I smiled
When the waiting rumple in my bed
Cooled, and shifted, and was lost.
I treasured that brittle smile, a nothing,
And I miss the way you fitted, exactly.