The wind is a scream
tonight
or a quick breath
upon the solid lip
of the quarter-filled wine glass.
It haunts the eaves
of my empty house,
stalks the corners of my loneliness.

This bedroom is a recurring scene
well-worn and moth-eaten-
the cat flickering in the lamplight;
the plants climbing the walls
in search of a light;
the sharp click of the furnace
as bitter cold December
creeps in over the windowsill.

Familiar, familial,
like the dichotomy of flesh
and a mind with sharp edges;
of soft sun kissed curves
and this brittle winter heart.