Missing

Perhaps it is the taste, that distinctive flavour behind the last meal, the last cigarette, even the thick new waking taste. The one thing, the aftertaste, the UNDERtaste, that was distinctly YOU. Perhaps it is the smell, the singular musk underneath the cologne, the cigarettes, the sweat from a day's work. Perhaps it is the touch, the feel of your skin against mine, your chest beneath my fingers, your lips against mine. Perhaps it is the sound, the unique lilt to your voice, the half whispered "yesssss". Perhaps it is the sight, you in all lights, all darknesses, all modes of dress and undress and every stage in between.
Or, perhaps, it is me. My personal psychoses. That wouldn't be a surprise to anyone.
Whatever it is, its absence is inescapable tonight.
Laters