When I'm Tired

When I'm tired,
so tired that there's nothing else
I can do,
I think of you
and what you were wearing
that wet day:
not your clothes
(you weren't wearing
any clothes)
but the scent that clung
to your skin and hung
in the room long after you'd gone.

When I'm tired enough,
and empty enough,
I can, by some trick of the memory,
close my eyes
and stroke again your skin
and smell anew that scent
and even hear the rain.