Past the benches, in which we whispered the truth of our love,

my memory hits me hard.
The leaves fall and twirl,
landing on me like your soft hands,
searching for a way into my heart.
The cold presses against my chest,
ripping the healing wound within me.
A crow caws far away in the distance,
it is too late-
too late for omens now.
I catch a glance of your shadow,
a blur,
black as a starless night.
I reach out to grab, to hold, to claim you my mine,
but my hands turn to dust,
and your shadow only fades away.
Far away, you travel,
only a shadow causing a cold draft,
leaving me to bleed on my own.