Dead Tree In a Snowglobe He Balanced on His Hand

 

I miss how the trees are in the summertime

I miss saying your name

It feels like this winter has lasted longer than its time

you wrote about it always

towards the end...

almost like you knew everything I wasnt ready for

natures son..

You kept the atmosphere in your chest

and

when it rained, you rained like

every time you closed your eyes on those long nights when you caught sleep with your hands

You'd tuck it under your pillow,until it hissed to you your:

                                                                                          fears

oh (the things you sat alone with)

churning them into nightmares, you'd wake again 

writing about winter

red eyes, sipping tea

melting the veins you crystallized

 staring out the window

                                                                   if only I had listened

to what the world was really saying..

what you always said

beneath your words

and now, consequently, everything feels dead

the only sounds

echoed whispers that hold your sunken melody

whispers...

mistaken dor the lonely mumbles of an old house

or 

a baying dog in the distance

lost

all these embody the void that you have become...

the quiet that separated

us         back         into          individuals

[your nothing but an empty space 

in a room I no longer recognize [..

                                              You are the                                     sound

vibration

(the vibration after sound)

that curls itself inside my hand

the hunger in my stomach squelching protest to all the things 

we can not see

                                                      While,

I was the pale light that fell on the face of a widow

too scared to

tongue the syllable of your name

                                                       While,

I am as grey as winter

dead

in the way that you have become