I can faintly make out an image,
Sometimes,
Late at night,
I can trace out your face
On the inside of my eyelids.

I can recall scents beyond bottled perfume.
Morning creams,
And favorite old sleeping garments,
The way you taste on late night benders,
And special birthday dinners,
The curve of you inner thigh,
And the bend of your back.

These are with me like scars on the soul,
And you ask me if I can smile?
I can smile.
I can phase out the world,
While staring out a moving car window,
And vividly remember passing words between us.
Only these words I can see and form,
And they come out perfectly warm.
They fit like a glove you find in the back of the closet,
As you’re running out to a snowball fight.
Just right.

I can smile ’cause I have painted over
All the nastiness that came out of your mouth
With the liveliest of colors.

The deepest red like your lips when you pouted.
The darkest blue like my soul when you departed.
The freshest pink like your lust at my touch.
The sharpest green like my skin when you explained such and such.

I can smile inside and out
And shed tears of joy at events
That may or may not have taken place.
Memory like the feel of lace
Rubs off the past and into
Warm beds of what ifs.

And in that bed I make
I sleep the sleep of safety.
The rest of content men.
The comfort of revisionists.

And in that bed I make I know the best
The world could offer.
The finest of nuances,
And plentifulness of exaggeration.

But in that bed,
In which I lay,
I may smile as much as I may,
But I do not dare cover
In the pretense
Of happiness.