Beloved,
I write to you from the marrow of silence,
where your name still claws the walls of my ribs.
Every breath I take is borrowed from your absence,
every shadow a telegram from your ghost.
I have pressed my lips against the memory of your throat,
tasting the dust that has replaced your laughter.
Do you remember when we shared a heart like contraband,
smuggling tenderness through the checkpoints of despair?
Now I light a candle to your vanished face,
its flame stuttering like a pulse that refuses resurrection.
If you return, even as ash,
I will
call it love.
