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.