~rote it's winter & the night smells of smoke & ache I'm alone in a house full of black ink a thousand miles from here searching for something that belonged to you older than an apology something quiet like the cadence in caesuras of february's shifting snow as white as an empty page it's always winter & I am not this when I measure the sound of clouds moving their darkness like yesterday's words & when I measure the thickening air between us by months by my shadow's long bones sleeping in a bed of separation it's the same way I assemble assonance in a small room with small walls as it calls out metaphors until it echoes in my ribs, ghosting my voice it's still winter & I remember forgetting I'm growing older colder between these sheets writing you in this #poem I pretend to be & trying to name this grief lah 7.10.17 ©