I come again by the light of a sickle, sickly moon
to an old, cracked and mossy stone. In front of it, a
tarnished vase of long-decayed flowers, liquified
with rot and mold
Cold mist covers me like a tattered prayer shawl,
and the wolves stand still and watch from the pines.
I go down to one knee, and brush the lichen off the letters,
now almost level with the stone.
I sigh, searching my heart for the kernel of it once again,
hoping against hope, knowing it is no longer there,
and just not willing to concede.
Its leaving was painful, and it almost
severed my fingers
as I tried to keep it close.
The pain was so great, I could only beg in silence.
The thought of the looming, yawning chasm
of its absence paralyzed me, and my trembling fingers, unable to
take any more,
On my first visit here, the memories were like the flowers:
fresh, vibrant, full of color, fragrant with life.
But just as the flowers would make no new petals,
we would make no new memories,
and in time, these I cherished turned to sepia,
now tinged an ashy gray.
You made me feel life was worth living.
And yet, still, the letters of your name
can be seen,
and I whisper it to the
black, eternal sky.