Mornings bring [aches] that don't go away with time, nights are restless limbs, cold fingertips. Your lips^- sunrise. Exhale. An existence of perpetual sleep, yet I fear to close these eyes lest your skin touch mine in dreams. Pause. You'd think time would have been enough to grow new bones (echo of crunched snow, blooming sky), but you've been hiding in the wrinkles of my knuckles and laughing at me as I stare too long at old houses, avoid reflections, count the panes in my bedroom windows again. Dear. ~ I will surpass you.