what barely remains

in her wake,
in her ether left,
she leaves spaces
for a lingering sigh
in that cold remain.
she leaves remnants
for a longing goodbye
in that Hollywood rain.

trailing behind her,
and beyond her,
as a wistful scent,
as a wishful hope,
as a whispered what,
is an impression of an ideal,
a glimpse through a rose window,
a hint at an ache against the reel.

with one breath
you can draw her back in,
you can draw her back into your mind,
into your heart as a work of passioned art.
with one more breath
you can summon her spirit,
you can summon her spirit as a sensation
of a dart remembered through the heart.

with another, with another breath,
she starts to slip further away
like love-me/love-me-not petals caught in the air.
with another, with another breath,
she dances further from your fingertips,
like that balloon you won (and then lost)
at the county fair.

and with one more breath,
her vividness is nearly vapored.
and with one more breath,
she leaves you wanting
much more than her perfumed essence. 

1.1.2014
M. L. Michael 

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