Layered Fragments, Becoming Whole

I checked out 
Of the hotel 
Only to find myself wondering about you 
Again 

The you I see under the glow of streetlights 
Against sturdy steel high-rise buildings 
Standing on living concrete with the blue-black sky 
Above

So lovely 
Like a faded photograph
It's like I know you… 
From eons ago 

I can trace your face from lost memories never recovered
I can hear the rumble of your voice 
Sometimes low and honeyed like the slow burn of whiskey 
Sometimes firm with an edge 
As if everything said was absolute truth 
And I'd obey, quietly reaching for you… 
your fingers lightly interlaced with mine 
The base of our palms melded 
Like it was always meant to be one

Those Hands that write 
Hands 
That write…
And I don't know you
at all

I haven't been home… 

Are the lights on in the living room… 
Tinged in that hazy warm translucent molasses 
The kind that makes me want to fit my body into yours…
just so we can hold our waning light a little longer… 
Are mugs still scattered like half spoken thoughts, 
Waiting for tomorrow
Did you keep the books haphazardly placed on the loft floor like a curated gallery… 
Of us

I haven't been home…
The me that made you my home
I haven't been home…