None of these entirely

I'll miss you.
I may trace our love
in a series of small moments
but they are only loose colours
draped over the true shapes
of what we mean:
your quiet pleasured chirp
when I leave you
with a half-expected kiss;
you in faded plaid and jeans
splaylegged on your kitchen floor
greygreen eyes absorbed in the
rediscovered plastic farm animals
you position just so;
the high curves of your cheekbone
eye brow and fine lashes
barely traced through
feather-hesitant fingertips;
the singing shock
of seeing you naked
(and me wondering
ogod ogod ogod
how do I touch this
without breaking us both
on the sudden jaggedness
of this emotion I feel);
the spicewarm smell of you near
through long nights of walf-waked dreaming.
But it's none of these entirely
and I know that soon
there will be emptiness
in these full places
fading of the colours
of these carefully stored thoughts
and under them
a slow loss of the remembered magic
I'll no longer feel beside me
through long nights of half-waked dreaming.