The candle melts on the sill,

waxes poetic on the drip

drop

crime scene marring the

huffed breath window.

It’s been twenty days since he left.

She’s been counting all the ways

in which dust is like a pond rippling

and so far

she’s on three.

The snowflakes crucify themselves

to the wooden stakes,

bleed hollow between glass shards

of the harvested moon,

and it’s red that’s pooling at the

bottom of her tea cup.

She sees his smile in the way

her pinky curls slyly at the

cold ceramic,

and wonders if he sees her

on these halcyon days

too.