I lean my head on the windowpane,
and watch the snowflakes swirl
and plummet to the ground;
your room is warm and smells like Earl Grey tea
and mahogany;
words spill out from cluttered shelves
and pour out of half-open drawers;
I sit in your favorite chair,
all alone;
my brittle fingers,
with their hollow bones,
search for pieces of you,
hidden away in nooks
and corners,
in leather bound volumes
and lingering notes of Bergamot.

The clock is ticking loudly,
like always,
and I sit and watch the door.