You Keep Leaving Me Pieces, But I Want All Of You

You keep leaving
pieces of yourself
in the palm of my hands,
and taking them back
before I can hold onto you.

My fingers,
are longing to grab
your warm callused ones,
instead,
the thick air
wraps around tighter
once more.

But all that’s left
lingers;
the distinct scent of
mahogany teakwood slips away,
as if you’re still
really here.
And your side
of the bed,
where your head once lay
sinks no more.
Somehow,
I know that
masked eyes
guarding unwanted truths
won’t protect
my shielded heart
any longer;
you’ve stripped me down
to
nothing.

You’re here,
somewhere
out in this great big world.
I just don’t know
what it is,
or what it will take
to make you stay.

If you have to go,
and for good this time,
leave me with this:
something to
know,
something to
hold,
something to
keep,
something to
believe.

Leave me with you.