Missed

She was on the phone,
again, when I checked for
messages that I had missed
while out taking care of
this and that. Hearing her

reminded me that I still
could feel the warmth of
her body against mine, how
it buffered me from the night
air. I barely needed a blanket

even now, with half the bed
empty and cold. I had to replay
it, working my way through all
five senses--how her hair smelled
of lemons, but her skin was

salt and sweat and made my
stomach growl to breathe in;
the way my fingers would itch
when they had been too long
from caressing their way up

inside her; and how I always knew
it was her cough even in the very
back of a darkened house full of
laughter and applause. I replayed
it once more to see if anything had

changed, but it was just the same
as every other time I'd missed her.
"I want to come home. Please."
I would understand it more if this
was still her home, but it's not.