The sheets are cold where you laid that night;
The smell of your perfume still dissipating slowly.

That night I mapped every inch of you,
The curves of your hips a cartological wonder.

This morning, I navigate blindly;
The divots in your collarbone just a memory.

Should I feel lost? Or at least some loss,
For the alleys and avenues I walked for a time?

My hands skirt the edge of where you laid,
Feeling only silk; the warmth of your skin forgotten.

Some paths are meant to be walked just once.
Some monuments are built with the intent to crumble.

I grab the sheets’ edge and pull them taut,
Wiping your topography from the map of my life.