This Is What Is Left When You Lose Someone You Love

Look into my eyes.
Brush the hair back from my face. Kiss
me. Kiss my lips. Again.
Tell me
not that you love me,
but how the summer breeze blows
through those white blinds.
Tell me of the sausage and onion pizza
you ate for dinner last night,
the stupid joke your boss told during break,
your impossible fear of spiders.
I don’t know, exactly,
what it is I want to hear.
But I know I like
the sound of your voice,
the way you grab my chin, and pull
my face to yours, stare
into my eyes.
As if this moment, this
single,
insignificant
moment
should be celebrated, remembered.
So that months later,
when you’re gone
and I’m driving the highway alone,
suitcase in the passenger seat,
I remember those blinds, those eyes.
And I remember what I think I’ve always known.
It is the small moments
we carry with us.