In Absentia

A glass of rosé,
the sun past
its operatic pitch –

I settle
into this quiet hour.

Memories enter
through the French doors
half-opened, their knobs polished
with a man’s cotton shirt.

I wish he would filter in --
not as reflection but spirit.
The scent of his cologne, his tobacco
the crisp pages of his journal.

I remember how he turned
in sleep. His shoulder looming
as marble in the dusk. A sculptured calm,
a landing place for my head.
My dark and frantic dreams.