Even the singular is plural

Invisible but sensorial
Untouchable yet tingle
comb-shaped particles that dissipate
across our skin to the universe
of dark blue
(her favorite color)
there’s no time for that moment,
no moment for a state of being
for we are, we are,
I swear I feel we are,
we must be…
this time
tired.

Can those particles be found in a certain
tone, in a particular repetition,
in a precise combination of
saturation and hue in our irises?
Or are they tone, repetition,
and combination of saturation
and hue themselves now on
our kiss?

Love is plural to me,
this time,
tired,
I put my pants back on,
leave her sleeping,
looks too beautiful unaware
of my agony for leaving,
I smile and leave behind my
hat, placed by her chair,
where in my head she’d
sit and wear it, just to,
just to feel me.

She never called me back.