The crisp chill of a late November evening;
leaves falling on the aging soil as I watch
the sun descend six feet below the horizon.
I stare beyond the astral plane hoping to see her;
my imaginations become infractions against decency.
Our secrets remain in these old pockets despite the demons
standing beside me. The taste of ginger lingers on my lips;
my hand bleeds from the tight grip on a rose that bears her name.
I miss the smell of her skin and the glimmer in her eyes;
I long to see her smile.