My heart still aches for you,

Tho I know you’re gone.

I counted the days, you know.

The days since I dug your grave.

The days since I tried to scrub the dirt from beneath my fingernails—

Unable to see my hands through the tears.

I don’t count the days any more.

The months, yes,

But the wound has scabbed over.

Sometimes something gets caught. Like today.

The scab ripped away and it’s fresh again.

I pull an old shirt from the closet and think of you.

Your phantom warmth on my skin for just one, fleeting, moment.

And then I’m a mess again, just like when I found you.

And I remember how cold you were that evening.