December

December

Full of waiting, this harsh winter.

In mourning I see -
A ripe melon of crimson meat.

A bleached dining plate, licked clean.
A jean pocket full of ripped yellow pages.

A lip the color of deep aching.

Rest here with me just for a moment,
so I can exist once more for
the strand of hair you leave behind on my pillow.

Sing to me this last time
in that way that makes me wish you were only a stream, 

so you could collect in pools around my collarbone.

May you find a sweetness in this.
May you wake one morning in this cold 

and be full of something new