The smell of your skin,

softer somehow, and mine

a dull glow underneath.

If I touch you, will

I disappear,

blurred by that silken


My head, a mess of

color and never evers,

stitches you into my


the threads delicate

and unbending.

I don’t remember the

day my face slid over yours—

the hours I left you behind,

a picture underwater.

But you’re still here,

always the question in my mind.


©Ashley Herring Blake 2015