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still
it is only in the wee hours of the morning
that is actually spent
thinking,
seeing something not directly before you
putting little words and phrases together
like a blank puzzle;
it is only when it is dark
that i remember
what you really look like.
it is in the candlelight
where i am the most blinded
by my other senses,
left only by flickers of skin.
and moreso, it is when
the wine passes over my lips
in sweet betrayal of innocence
and i am stained
that i taste you.
there is cohesion unspoken of
that lingers across empty beds
and silent telephone calls.
i feel you, i hear you
even still.
