Watermark ★★★

There is a faded watermark
stained into my sheets
by the ink bled from your shoulder
as you slept
curled around me.
It is the shadow of a lost moment,
more concrete than the memory itself
which I feel slipping from me
in little breaths,
losing its footing.
I've had other interests since we parted,
traced my fingers through hair,
lain my head to curved shoulders,
and written poems
about bodies and lingering heat.
I've wanted others
in that way that aches
and gnaws
but goes unreturned.
And even if sometimes
I see you in them
It doesn't mean
really anything at all.
Strange,
I'm not used to rejection
but we both know
I am used to the wanting.
And so even if I trace
the outline you've left
I know this pang inside
is not because I miss you.
I just miss your silhouette,
the outline of a memory,
without the details
to ruin it all.