I was starving so I imagined you coming back to me in a dress. I was lonely so I imagined you dancing without your clothes on. A gallery of proofs that you were here before. Exhibit A: an empty milk carton on the hollow of my fridge. Exhibit B: your lipstick stains on the carton’s soggy mouth. I am missing you, guilty as charged. Still, I want to bite your ankle like a snake, bite your neck like someone who bites necks for a living, bite your ears like I love you, and really, I do, with God as my witness, and all the bones in my body. All 206 of them forming the smallest shrine in honor of your spine, your kiss an Amen to the prayer of my breath. The cicadas in my lungs are humming hallelujah. The gospel this morning according to my hands: Your thighs are my bank accounts, I shall not want.