He kisses me before he goes. While I,
still dozing, half-asleep, laugh and rub my face
against the sueded surface of the sheets,
thinking it’s him I touch, his skin beneath
my hands, my body curving in to meet
his body there. I never hear him leave.
But I believe he shuts the bedroom door,
as though unsure if he should change his mind,
pull off his boots, crawl beneath the blankets
left behind, his hand a heat against my breast,
our heart rates slowing into rest. Perhaps
all good-byes should whisper like a piece of silk—
and then the quick surprise of waking, alone
except for the citrus ghost of his cologne.
Jehanne Dubrow, Stateside (Northwestern University Press, 2010)
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