I think it’s the way you used to hold me,
Versus how you do now,
That grants me a more significant pause,
It’s like you cannot remember how to be gentle,
When you reach for me,
Because,
Your fingertips bruise, and my lips turn down,
Instead of lighting a fire, you stoke stone-cold embers,
There’s a phantom of you and me,
Lingering passionately in the in-between,
As we roll to our respective sides,
Both of us living in dreams of finer times.