He clenches his fists –
reddening knuckles and fresh cuts
against his white complexion;
he wished he was
or perhaps numb.
Trudging barefooted against
the cold icy pricks of gravel;
sepia nostalgia –
against her soulless eyes and
He knows what they all say –
too much of heaven’s a sin;
They say that time flies,
but she kept breaking its wings.
Insatiable hunger for the
sharp features he’d grown used to –
the chiffon that slipped past
his fingertips with ease,
the scent of daffodils as she went by.
They once wrote eulogies for each other,
the day he was diagnosed with
merciless things that ran through his nerves.
And now as he lay under the dim moonlight,
his fingers run through the grass as he mutters incoherently;
the moon his audience,
the sky fading to black –
whilst the nightmares come back.