like the wind, like the rush of your hair
that visits my cheek and is gone,
as knees disentangle from thighs?
"Leave your key in the mantelpiece on the way out."
"God, who has mantelpieces anymore? This sounds like a fucking movie."
"Sometimes life imitates art."
In the dark, I can not see your face as you turn the corner.
I recline, relishing the sheets against my skin, and breathe in -
the scent of pines drifts in through the half-open window.
Nostalgia punches like a girl.
But I can not regret - not having had you, not having let you go.
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