“After Two Months” by Kris Bigalk

I dreamed myself blind
in a burned-black room
the curtains blowing
the scents of autumn’s end—
caramel smoke, with an edge
of chill, of rain, of endings,
and then
sweet softness
your gentle bearded cheek
sliding alongside my body
until your mustache
rested on my upper lip
and the cool mint
of your tongue slid
to meet mine.
I woke, but didn’t open
my eyes.

I know that ephemera
only rides the wind
and doesn’t circle back.

I know the way mist
gives way to rain,
then to snow.

But knowing is not believing.

So I waited, eyes closed,
and listened to the curtains
whisper, smelled the last
of the bonfire embers,
and held a hand
to my cheek,
where your breath
left its warmth,
where you had been,
somehow still are,
and then
I opened my eyes.

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Image: Justin Hamm