In the room where you just were,
a circle of breath clouds the window,
fingerprints press into the dresser.
A shirt, sleeves tangled,
hangs over a chair.
Your books are piled on the floor,
the words shoved against each other
or maybe in love.
Within the wall
the shower water rushes.
I lie on the bed and
all the hours of your sad resting
like a swimmer
coming from a great distance down
to meet me.
Published in (this), The Rag
Photo by CHUTTERSNAP on Unsplash