You are the smoke as it escapes me and dissapates, that i pull to escape from the thought of you. You are the words on this page more naked than flesh. You are the closed eyes peacefully at rest. You are a blade of grass carefully collecting dew. You are, in your subtlety, my idle thought of you. You are the driveway on the morning after snow storm. You are the sweater and scarf left at my house and their warmth. My broken speaker. My guitar teacher. My pain meds. My bare bed. You are you when you peruse the smooth expanses of my skin. You are part of me when i feel without within.