The Absence

His non-presence
Is real.
It takes space
And has his shape.
I'm afraid to step on his invisible toes,
To crumple the trace he left on my reality
By rolling over it in my sleep.

The air moves around his absence.

I hallucinate his touch and his laugh.
My brain actively imitates Morel's invention
And spends long and soft hours
Recreating his smell
And the texture of his hair
And the trillions of cells
That lovingly compose his being.

The machine must be broken.
The sudden deprivation of him
Makes my heart heavy
And the colors paler.

Until we close the distance again
I will wrap myself in his words
And my memories.