His Sheets
When she leaves, his sheets hold scent in folds,
opening like yesterday's flowers, releasing her.
His hands finds their way down elusive paths
only she has travelled, many times.
Sleep eventually severs their bond;
he will awaken in the split light of sunrise,
automatic coffee smells timed to radio.
They will part with tousled haired words.
Days tumble, one domino over another.
Eventually his sheets hold ghosts of her.
The room is an untidy disarray of lonely.
Any remainder of her body, unrecognizable.
(Cyndi Dawson 2015)