last night in my hamster dreams
I heard your voice
as subtle as a brush stroke,
ancient as a flint axe.
and you still were warm
so much of the emptiness was gone
your hands had crept up and silenced the air
that fell out of my mouth
heat ran in and warmed the backs of our legs
as we slept the day became unkempt
it was an untidy bed
that finally tipped us into night
you wore a teabag skirt
as I recall.