Sometimes, and Maybe After a Cold Rain

sometimes, and maybe after a cold rain
that briefly washes some old irrelevant fears,
a face becomes indelible
in my imaginings.

sometimes, and maybe after a draft from
a cigarette and restlessness settles,
a familiar feeling sits on my chest.

an ache perhaps
or the missing gravity
of skin to skin.

sometimes, and maybe just some times,
you are atrociously stubborn,
frightfully ineffaceable:

you and your weight sitting on my chest,
you and your weightlessness on my arms

you or maybe,
still you again.