As if.

Awake quivering

by the caress of an absent

hand you know too well.

Very briefly, the sheets feel like

a dry ice-cold skin

in contrast with

the heart muscle’s heat radiation.

Love is not felt by its beats

but lower in the guts.

I open a window to

listen to the silence.

The absence of sound

invades the room till

an awakening bird

ruffles the magic as

by a windblown.

In an otherwise empty bed,

I mold a second cushion,

to a body shape in my lap.

Trying to revive a dream

as if falling asleep

will preserve the illusion.

When left alone that day

one holds desperately the feeling,

longing for nightfall, waiting

for the dream to continue.

After another restless

night one knows,

only the real experience

will withstand the time.