It's two am and I'm missing you. I've reached out every third Sunday and shivered at the expanse of white cotton that's greeted my searching fingers.
The ground's thawed out a little. The frost cleared for a few days, long enough for the blossoms to return to crisp demeanor. It was blue and rose, this last sort of handkerchief left fluttering, attached to an effigy in the untouched corners of your continuous haunt.
There are no chains strong enough to bind you to that pale horse and so I've been lost in thought, drifting alongside that dark highway, stumbling toe-to-heel, shoes dangling from a casual hand, but it'd be warmer if yours was near.
Listen to the moon sing silver and the clouds tumble haphazardly as I dig deep trenches around you because I can't stand to look at your face one last time.
I have to fool myself into thinking I never found you at all.
Your eyes are nothing but dust, yet I feel them stab between my shoulder blades, as sure as the sweat that slides between my breasts as if it's July, and not January morning.
I dug nails into the engraved edges of your name. Gold ink spilled in a little folded paper, just enough to make the first letter stand out.
Your bulk and your breath are sorely needed.