There is a house at the edge of the woods
Where a man once loved a woman
He had painted it the color of her eyes
Which were umber
And wild

When she was gone, the morning wept for her
And the thrushes mourned with their songs
Though they did not know it

He found quiet places for her
In dust that hung in sunbeams
In corners pooled with darkness
and heavy with unspoken grief

Now, there are only whispers
When wind finds purchase in each crack
As the house crumbles
And opens itself to gentle starlight

The slow curiosity of the forest
As it begins to take from the house
Roots with their sorrowful strength
Reaching from the floorboards

Until there is no house at all
Only trees holding her in their blossoms
That catch the hushed rain
And grow wildflowers rich with the scent of her memory

Her brown eyes in the dark.
The path of her spine marked with ink.
You trace it with your hand.
You feel her storied body.
Her skin hot, and yielding.
She radiates in the darkness.
Dark hair like spilled ink across the bed.

She gasps when you touch her
with a hand that aches with need;
your fingers wet with her want.
Your mouth fills with the taste of her.
You are starving,
and she is boundless.

In the morning,
there is a bottle of wine on the table.
The hand that poured it,
slender fingers on dark red glass
and thin stem, are gone.

The wine is gone.
The murmur of voices in the darkness
has dissipated into the pale morning sun,
soft and diffuse;
light that spreads and grasps
with halcyon fingers through the yellow curtains
and across the walls,
never reaching.

Gossamer light drapes through slender branches
Budding fingertips grasping for the morning sun
Offering the memory of spring

When the birds return
They will nest in its open palms
When the leaves return
and fill the gnarled hands with color

And when they sing their songs
which ripple delicately on the morning air
laden with the sweet breath of honeysuckle
It will carry your name