the gentle hands that wrap around my throat,
the decorative jewels of bruises,
the pale flesh that inspired poetry,
kissed by the silver blade
as i kneel in the scaffold

I still taste the salt
from the sweat of our friction
your laughter echos in the cavern
where I buried my heart
the flame of your smile
fades with the days
and with it
its warmth
but lend me now
the wool of your words
and I’ll fashion a scarf
we know December looms