I’ve been thinking of you these days.
When the sun slips down into its sleepy hole
and fasts the night away;
when the empty sheets beside me
cradle the memories of some
body that once homed upon it;
I’ve been thinking of you.
The wok burns hot, licked by
hungry flames beneath.
Onions and garlic shout across the kitchen
with a bold scent that would draw any lover –
I half expect your feet, pattering across the
cold tiles, looking for
a warm meal, your gentle voice purring
like a kitten – but I know better.
Tonight’s table will be a set for one,
much like so many nights before.
No kisses for me this evening,
but I wish better tidings for you.
Meet someone, go somewhere,
be somebody – no. Do all that
but be yourself.
The self I loved you in, the you who
danced under the rain when the skies painted black,
who ate mexican with relish, and
everything else for that matter,
so long as I cooked it for
you, the you who tapped her feet
lightly with a half-smile on the lips
when I play a half-baked love song on that
ancient guitar. Because who else could you be?
Even when these memories fade, I
imagine that in someone else’s embrace
you smile with that half-smile, and
light their world away. You, who would
make anybody’s day – I’ve been thinking of you