I missed you so intently
and for so long that,
though I no longer watch
for your shadow in my doorway
and forgot the sound of your step,
the past is coated in residue,
as if you really spent Christmas
here, lived days as the passenger
in my car for uncounted weekends,
as if you were here for more
than my birthday, when I smelled
the scent you always wore,
mixing with the candle smoke.

By Heidi Turner