This Side of the Sun

you were nothing but sunlight
a mass of nerves
and heat
turned to flesh beneath me
along my bones,
where you will remain
as I wear my shadows
layered
on my skin.

Does my willful memory
hold you differently?
more solid beneath my hand
than you ever were
as if I had created a memory
from the thin dust
of summer.

And I wait
silent.
One hundred and seventy-three days,
turns slowly into
two hundred and seventeen days.

Trees moved to bone
lost their leaves
and I,
I’ve been shedding
myself
to the earth
one loss at a time.

what’s next?
what’s near?
I write you this letter
to let you know
the lengthening
stretching days
are torture
when you are not here
with me,
on this side of the sun.

Spring has no use for grief.
She will never cry
for the heart left for dead
in winter,
nor lay her flowers
on the grave
of a love long gone.

It’s been unseasonably warm
these past few days
as if to trick the hands of time

to hurry you along
to my doorstep.