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Filaments

Even when I haven’t seen you in days
I find reminders of you everywhere.

I slept last night
curled against your pillow
to breathe the scent of you in sleep
and woke with a thread of your hair
braided to my beard.

I bathed and glimpsed you
on the shower wall,
a coil and wet snake
I try to divine
like tea leaves or runes,
attempts to suss out
predictions of your return.

I dress myself; brush a string of you
from breast pocket, and walking out,
notice another in the hallway mirror,
a kiss nestled at my lapel.

You are in the headrest of my car,
my bag, my books, filaments left like gifts;
they tether me to you
until your hair and you rest at night
beside me again.

This poem was originally published under the pen name Gabriel Gadfly.
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