is the only way I have to measure time.
― Jorge Luis Borges
In the loneliness
Of the winter silence,
When ice ticks
Against the window pane,
And snow patterns itself
In darkness.
When the moon
Falls behind
The turning night,
I miss you,
In the quietness
Of my parent's creaking house.
I see your face
In the potted geraniums;
My arms ache for you
As only arms remember;
You fit comfortably
Under my shoulder
Like my guitar.