Pillow Talk

by Gordon Mason

I turn to read your note
left on Tuesday’s pillow.

The words have pale skins
of ghosts in satin.

Tears from buds
behind the confessional grill

of my eyelids.
You are only visible in your words,

your scent, your absence.
I hold this knotted jewellery

of emotions in my hands.
I press my nose into your perfume

and read until the last sentence
takes my breath away.