water circles

i don't want to let go of
anything you have ever touched.
i think if i believe that this helps
– that holding what you've held
is somehow me holding you –
then i can assemble you
out of your fingerprints,
and you will be here,
instead of
worlds away.
i think if i sit where you've sat
i could make a home
in how you say goodbye
and leave silently.
i think if i trace the circles
that your glasses of water leave
on the tables
then earth might spin
madly clockwise instead
and gravity would set you sail
back to me,
and all the vikings
in their warships
would raise a glass
to us.
i think if i stand where you stand
when you wait for me to
open the door and let you in,
praying that the air you breathed out
hasn't left yet,
then you could be
the dirt in my lungs
and the ache in my ribcage.