Time is not a healing instrument of all
Bollocks
I miss his sweaty armpits
The socks
I miss the stubble dried above on the sink when I get shaved
I miss the sound of his keys he turns in the lock
I like just one more nigh of cowering under him
One more night of love
The true affection
And few more days of tenderness
But, after all
In the end
What’s left?
Apart bones
Of your teeth
