I said “good night” first Because it was obvious That you would not say it Though you had to go. And, as you said goodnight, I closed my eyes, thinking You'd be there when, later, At length, I dared open them. No, it's not you But your voice that is there, Because you have gone back To his home — to his bed. I wish you could be In my kitchen instead, Perched on my counter While sipping some tea. But, since that cannot happen, I wish I were there Where you lay when we spoke On the phone, late last night. I could then breathe whatever remained Of your smell On the pillow, the sheets… In that room — in the air. But I'm here and you're there And, by now – I'm afraid – The maid must have changed All the beddings and, thus, What remains of that time, After twenty-four hours, Is only the sound Of your voice in my head.