In some ways it was never anything more than dreams.
Other times, I swear I felt the brush of human skin across my back.
Laughter seems more external than any sorrow
I remember small contests, shared secrets.
(Was our last caress against that red wall?)
I dropped it casually, as if hundreds would inevitably follow.
Why the small box of leftover moments
growing mold in my refrigerator?
Too many questions, I know.
I found your footprint in the desert a few weeks back
and took a photograph to show you
only to realize
image was our greatest illusion.