I. Mornings
I hear you,
a distant moan
dusting my ear.
I keep still—
head down,
eyes pressed shut.
My body burdened
knowing nothing keeps you
from me.
II. Afternoons
Your approach slams
the heaviest doors—
windowless rooms shiver.
Your spite funnels
a disquieting chill. Outside
the slow swath of the sickle.
III. Evenings
The ashen whisper of your voice,
the icy peeled finger pressed
against my lips.
Shhh...
a reminder.
تعليقات