My
Russian winter. It is late, late fall. I think of back East when the wolf gets
not just an hour but an entire season. That cold, soul coughing pain in my
chest.
I am
outside the city without you.
It
is the time of year when hearts may break. By three o-clock the trees grow
silhouettes, shadows birthed by a falling sun.
The
song you hum, I can not sleep without my music. Well, I can but in the morning
my dreams are kept from me, as are we.