A shadow marks time across my body. A wasteland of moon light and the silhouettes of leaves. I can’t sleep. I can’t slip into unconscious. Can’t leave the real for the dream . Instead. I lie here. And turn the thought of you over in my mind. I count the hours remembering the trace of your fingers. The way your hand fit my hip. The way your breath slowed and shallowed as the night slipped on. The shape of you in the dark. The smell of you. I remember the questions you asked. The way you held my hand. The way you took your coffee and how your voice changed when you spoke to your mother. I remember the feel of your chin in the hollow of my shoulder. The way you cleaned your teeth. The way you squeezed the tube from the middle. I remember how you cried. And that when you laughed, the whole room changed colour. I remember how often you closed the door. How many times you tucked my hair behind my ear. How the smell of mountain air would make you smile. I remember. I don’t know who you are. But I remember you.