I stand looking at the small window at the back of the house, a yellow candle hue framed in black.
The freezing air fills my lungs and it feels like the blackness of night; the sting of it burning my and bleeding steam as I exhaled.
You are not there, no one is but I picture you all the same.
I have to, or go mad in accepting I can’t bring you back.
I lift my scarf up to cover my face; faint tenuous fragrance lingers in the fibres and lifts my spirits, closing my eyes I fold into the din and disappear.
I have to accept the madness of knowing you have disappeared too.
They say time heals all wounds but I think it only outruns them. Time encapsulates the memory so you can only see it as if behind a glass, preserved but no way to get through it.
I hold my breath and picture you, I have to or it will be like you never existed.
But I see your smile, your soft amber lips and emerald eyes and oh how dearly wish I could understand the wordless stories they used to tell me. I reach out to touch you but I stop myself for if I don’t then it will only remind me you are gone.
I stand looking at the small window at the back of the house and I breathe in the freezing air letting it burn my lungs so I cannot speak.
I have to or I will go mad with the knowledge I can never say I love you again.
