Afterglow

Laying here,
still catching my breath,
in this empty room,
I am in stillness.
The phone won't ring,
and there's been no mail,
just silence,
awful empty silence.
And I am still throbbing.
The blood rushing through me,
and I think of a similar feeling,
from that night.
And I lay there,
with nothing between me and the ceiling
but breath.
This is not our doorway
or our stairs.
And the touch is not your hands on my face,
or your fingers on my back,
and I throb around the emptiness.
And your voice is fading
from that part of my mind where I'd stored it,
the things you said recorded
but remote.
I wonder if you can feel me
where you are
(or if you even try.)
My breath and my heart slow down again,
back where they are at rest,
and the void has grown again.
No stone or wind or rain,
just stillness and quiet,
the awful empty quiet.
And the phone wont ring,
and there's been no mail,
as I coat my face in salt,
and I am still sobbing.

(copyright 2002, Stacy Garrison)