The Trace That Remembers Me

Some part of me
remembers you,
the way
a candle remembers
being lit,
the way the breath remembers
the whisper,
and the way the whisper
remembers the shape of the neck
it trembled against.
Some part of me reaches out to you—
not with hands,
but with heat,
a warmth that spreads
in the hollows
that you once pressed into.
Some part of me aches for your return
when you are absent—
or at least,
that I might forget
you,
so that the emptiness does not echo with ache,
and your return can be
like a new beginning.