Somehow you are always just down the hall. Walking through the kitchen, feet bare upon the hard cool floor. You are never here, though I always look. Some ghost of hope, scattering winter dust. The touch that still clings, the weight that is still saved. The room is empty, only clotted with mistaken thoughts. The room is that bell that will never be rung.
The layers each soak through, the blood free though dying in the embers of solicitous air. Life being these strange compellings and odd cautions, the press of flesh holding our dreams by the bruises and retorts. The slow stalemate the best guess playing to this strength, this each day owning its own tomorrow. Hold on, because sometimes it is only you.
The truth is I could not have seen you. The truth is I don't want to look. The gray skies and hairs, the dwindling day vacating for the night. Looking too long I lost my purchase, staring too far I fell in search of flight. I wake up knowing that I am falling because you drift into distance. Every feature and glimmer I found upon your face only stories a fire would tell a moth, warning of extinction. Just the curl of aching fingers trying to hold it all in.