from the 41*

where is that
pocket of
scent,
put away
in between your jaw
and your neck?

where is that
soft cheek
that crumples
under the delight
of a smile?

where is that
oven-fresh warmth
that bodies are
under sheets,
while the world remains
cold?

lost is
belonging too well
to a place
where
you don't want to be

* 41 is the number of the bus I take to get to UBC and back.