Loss.

I sleep alone

and the willow whispers to me

softly

sweet verses

cut by the white of the moon

through her branches.

I sleep alone

and in that dreamless sleep

my heart echoes

the soft pitter-patter

of rain on the window,

yet there is no rain.

The nights have grown cold.

All I have ever known

has been shaped by these nights,

by poignant dew on morning petals.

All I have ever known

has been your face.

But now

I sleep alone.