It was the wind, that woke us.

It was in the wind that woke us;

in the cold that lingered, 

these months since. 

Not yet gone,

and yet—

it was in the voice of birds,

their bitter song,

those early mornings,

running from memory,

from the reminders,

everywhere, 

and yet,

there was nothing left. 

A chill filled the air,

the rain misted down,

the darkness came,

and yet,

there was something left. 

There had to be. 

Or else, 

"Why?"

Why?

To give again.

to give way—

to lusty abandon.

To chase,

to reach,

to fall short,

again. 

And yet—

this prayer,

these lips,

this swollen tongue. 

Our screams in the void,

never meeting,

never filled.