Jungle Room

you’re my quintessential midnight, catching traces of you across the duvet in the jungle room cross-bred with speckled remnants of your mothers’ perfume - or is it a candle? you’re my ushering silhouette. I hunt the shape of you in all my spaces - absolute or so poetically divulged, the imaginary portion slips away. I saw you become my favorite Sunday afternoon, blasting Moderat while you traced well-formed fingertips across my vision, and I can feel no other