Time stayed behind and
the fire lit evenings warmed
the cold room in which my
heart tattooed to you. Your

touch was never so warm
as the early days of parks
and coffee shops.  The ends
of Summers and we raked our
leaves, painted walls and
there was never enough

coffee.

I am touch without your
feeling without

your warmth.

hollow without

your

voice that said

me to

you.


Caroline Shank
10.5.2023