Him

Your synapses are

Lined with memories

Of his eyes, his nose, his smell;

The ghosts of his fingertips on your waist

Crawl around like spiders when I touch you.

His name is engraved in ornate lettering

Onto some corner of your brain.

I can taste him on the tip of your tongue, and

I can hear him murmuring like a salty stream

Underneath the sound of your choked sobbing.

Perhaps one day you shall invite me in

To your skull again, and perhaps

I shall acquiesce;

But I shall find draped on the sofa

And the lampshade and the coatrack,

Shadows of him

and him and Him.