Earl Grey makes fog of the past;
I no longer remember the smell
of your hair or shaving cream,
the wood-smoke perfume on your skin
or the lotion you rubbed on your arms,
and the rising steam crystallizes the sky
as it was when I did not look back
or did not cry – believe either story, or none –
the look in my eyes you did not see,
or are still haunted by on sober nights.
I will not return to you: I do not now,
even while your presence fills the air
and the ghosts of us eat breakfast together.
By Heidi Turner