Dear

A letter not sent.

Rain soaks our bedsheets for the last time
before a white blanket is finally laid upon them
putting our memories to sleep.

The storm beats tears against my window
and through a screen on the one I’ve left open for you, I look out
a pattern of melted snowflakes on my cheek.

In quiet grief I’ve tried so hard to blame you, to wish
you’d never told me that night under our moon
your nervous hands conducting a symphony
of falling ashes to the barren ground beneath our feet.

Those doors you opened for me on the day we really met
I shut and locked them thoughtlessly, one by one
slowly with each breath you took from me.

Each kiss bolted them.

© Kate Wavering