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.