Now You Are Really Gone

This morning I washed you off my body. You were still on me. Your skin, your breath, your tears. I didn't shower for four days. You were gone, but I felt like an imprint of you was still there. I know they wheeled your body down the boardwalk for the last time at 5:30 a.m. this morning, past the birds and the cats and Mt. Tam. I am thinking of you,