Detail from Docile Bodies by Patricia Arnillas
if… when you go
something remains of you
besides the glimmering absence
of your voice
carried like stardust
on the air
of a warm and calming
summer night
if… i mean to say
something remains of you
besides the skeletal shudder
of my half-opened windows
agitated like a ghost
in the gust
of a cold and biting
winter storm
if... something
and only if
i’ll know that
absent as you are
you are yet here
in
the clack of shoes
on the pavement
the glide of rain
on the ground
the caress of a lock’s tongue
to its housing
in
my breathless wait
for the flame of the candle
to spark
at the sound of your key
twisting inside the door
in
anticipation of your voice
to enter
to cast
its beloved shadow
in hushed whispers
upon the whitewashed walls
of my expectant heart
