More Leaves of Grass

This atmosphere is not a perfume

F F F Faust

this atmosphere is not a perfume
but the presence that remains
in contours pressed when you rose to leave
with morning

i am embracing the slow escape of warmth
to find comfort in this chilling room
shaping your image in
the smoke of my own breath
and half day-dreaming

what i can't do is hold you
grasp as i might to catch the illusion
there is nothing but a trace
left in a warm fold of sheet
that suggests the smell of you
and it is my skin that lies alone
bare against the sheets
and last desire