His Morning Still

Walked in, an hour after he left,

and the air was thick.

Not thick, exactly, but weighted

with the ghosts of his habits.

That sharp, clean aftershave,

then the undertone of coffee,

burnt, the way he likes it.

It clung to the sofa, the open book

on the table, the quiet.

It was almost him,

a second skin he shed

just at the door. And I stood,

just breathing him in,

trying to catch it,

before the window fan

moved it all out.