Before I knew you,
I knew your essence—
mossed divot of your chest.
Knew the pink-musked
baby mouse of your ear.
When you’re gone,
I’ll milk every seam and stitch
to find you, fret moth-holes
of your sweater
with thumb and finger.
I’ll burrow into our bed,
beat sheets with fists,
stomp circles—an animal
refusing—until your scent
carries me back
to the forest of sleep.