The cold of loss

The cold of loss.

My naked words hold nothing
only the shiver of meaning
in the cold of your absence.

I write out in silent lines,
let each comma be a breath,
and each full stop a touch.

I wander through sentences like a pilgrim
searching for the shadow of your voice,
where words glow like tongues of fire.

You are the compass I follow
though it points nowhere
except to more of you.

My longing is unclothed and fragile,
it trembles in the journey of memory,
hanging on the coat rack of hope.

May your words be—silk and wool—
with which I cover my vulnerability,
where I nestle against the cold of loss.