It's 3 a.m. in the cold.
I lost the bid and watched your breath get sold.
I tore up my written notes, scattering them into the fire
To keep warm our running joke.
Time makes me miss your sighs,
Time enough to have been a long time;
Long enough for me to miss even your lies.
Your windows have begun
To lose their reflection
While a haunting breath still stains the pane,
Yet I'm allowed to see you only when it rains.
No comments:
Post a Comment