Fingertips trace the outline of absence,
where your shape used to be—
a ghost of remembered warmth.
Across cities and silent telephone lines,
my heart builds bridges
from what is to what could be.
E
Fingertips trace the outline of absence,
where your shape used to be—
a ghost of remembered warmth.
Across cities and silent telephone lines,
my heart builds bridges
from what is to what could be.