J...

Sometimes, and mostly at night
I miss your bed
your angular, sparsely-haired body, and the verbena scent of your skin
the moment when you remove your glasses, rub your dark rabbinical student eyes
exhausted from the overconsumption of news
then bury yourself in mismatched, threadbare sheets and pillows in hunter green and periwinkle
your ties slung seductively over a closet door
posters tracing American political history I'll never know
and overstuffed dresser drawers, full of soft, ancient t-shirts of youth.
I miss the delicate crunch of cat litter as I creep about your amber-lighted living room.
Intimidated by philosophy books, I studied photos of your family on the mantle--perfectly dressed in expensive sweaters in exotic locales, precocious nephews--only two and four, yet entitled.
Nearly as much as you, I miss the cats—-gorgeous, needy creatures
who return to you nightly, in a tireless effort to win your closeness and love.