I write to you
No more

When you are still
Just who you are
And the night chills
Me from your far
Shoulders.

I think of you
Just barely

Like a book, ill-gotten,
Neither finished
Nor forgotten
A memory diminished
But not vanished.

I speak to you
In silence.

The faded ember
Has burned my hands
The scars remember
The heart understands
What memory won’t render.