When the wind blows I think that maybe you're back.

The memory stained planks of our stoop creek and I imagine your bare feet wandering across them to the door once more.

Such a beautifully teasing melody.

Your familiar voice brings the delicate hair on my neck and arms to attention, my pulse heavily increasing.

It's louder now.

My heart wakes me,
and for a split second
I felt as if the flesh of mine was pressed and conformed to the perfect contour of your body.

Instead,
the leather of the couch you've left behind as a reminder
moulds itself to the shape of my being.

Cocooned in a cold sweat,
the leather does not breath.
Does not beat for me.
Does not mind if I remain in this nightmare.

In this instance I am plunged into what seems like the depths of the arctic.

Drowning.