Obsession

I have sculpted you
in mashed potato.

The hourglass of your waist
can be traced
in every stroke of my pen.

I have heard you
in the roar of passing aircraft,
in the whispers of ants
crawling
through an inch of broken earth.

I have tasted your lips
in every meal
carved you out
in handfuls
from the insubstantial air

to hold you.

I have not held you
but you hold me
as I fall asleep
each night.