I spent most of that night watching
the perfect half-circle of her lips
and feeling the slow rise and fall of untroubled sleep.
I woke while the shower was still running
and pictured the dark curve of hair
cascading across the small of her back
before it was vigorously towel-dried.
There was footsteps,
the sounds of doors and drawers
and the whisper of cloth against skin.
The zipper of a suitcase.
I kept to the imperfect artifice of a shallow breathing.
With my eyes closed I watched
as she stood in the doorway,
turned toward the bed-
her lips formed an unasked question,
and she waited for its answer.
In the silence-
which proved answer enough-
I chanced a deep breath
to capture the essence of her perfume
(the only thing that lingered).
If asked to describe it,
I could only say
that it smelled like twilight,
like the very last touch of pink
after the sun has set.