On my most private of places, I wear your brief despondent intervals of sobriety.
The lovers nestled in their cold cavernous caves sicken at the coming sun.
She existed in the creases of his hands; like tiny shards of glass She filled the space.
This business of grief
Doe, do something only I could understand, walk in the middle of the road with your eyes closed.
I turn to respond only to be greeted by the soft caressing scent of a pine fire