Photo by Annie Spratt via Unsplash

Midnight Jasmine

I blame myself.
The years that keep going by,
the countries between us,
the many hands
that have touched you since,
the many lips.
You, who were so new.

They say you love what you’ve lost.
My loss is a desert of books,
furniture, people.
And you.

How could I have known
I’d miss you? It’s easy to leave
someone behind.

There have been others. Numerous
and forgettable.
I left them, too.

Remember that winter night
in the kitchen, hot
jasmine tea poured
slowly, a dreamlike draught,
my clumsy hands
warming your porcelain skin?

Or was it the other way around?

Were you the one holding
my gaze, the spoon
stirring endlessly and in vain,
our promises rising
like steam
as we began to forget them?

Where are you now? Who has you?
Is it too late to say
I want you back? Is it so wrong
to picture you lonely,
forgotten
at the back of some dusty
cupboard,
waiting for me?