Sense and Sensibility

I hear the falling leaves speak your name,
I hear them whisper softly in my ears
everywhere I go.

Like the last song one hears
before going to sleep,
it lasts until the next day.
It lasted until today in fact,
right now, it mingles with the sound
of my own breathing.

I smell your skin in the leaves
of the book I am reading,
I smell you too in the paper
where I scribbled the rudiments
of this pathetic poem.
It lasts and lingers, it blends
with the scent of the rain on my skin:
those droplets that touched me
on my way here.

I see your face in my coffee,
three-in-one or otherwise.
And your face stays in the cup
long after the coffee is gone.
I see you in the txt messages
I saved in my inbox.

And your memory shows up
like a screensaver
every minute of idle time.

Desiderata said that I must not
be cynical about love,
for amidst "all aridity and disenchantment
it is perennial as the grass."

I hear you.
I smell you.
I see you.

And therefore I conclude:

This must be just some inane phase I'm going through.