Waking in this inky darkness,
Yearning for even the tiniest flame
To bring the safe comfort of light.
But you took it with you,
Eroding all the warmth,
Leaving an immeasurable chill.
How your presence used to burn in me,
I still remember its heated touch
Like a phantom limb
Tingling in the aftermath.
Now this ring on my hand
Nothing more than a pretty pebble;
And these sheets, that used to house
The intimate joining of hearts and flesh,
Are nothing more than cold cloth;
What used to be a home,
Now only bricks and wood assembled
On clay muddied by my tears;
Left with nothing but the hope
Of something more somewhere around the bend.