one morning, between spaces of time

I miss the moment we will not have
one morning, between spaces of time
when only lovers exist. The moment when
my breath will tickle your neck,
when you will almost
touch me, and I'll feel it anyway,
like a phantom pain, but sweeter.
I feel the loss of that moment when
your reluctance
occupies your words,
forcing me to pretend I don't notice.
I know there will be more of these
reluctant words, know you have already
made up your mind to slip away.
And someday I'll miss even your slipping.
Now, though, I miss that precise moment,
your almost touch, that phantom pain.