Your Wasted Voice

I wake and find the past has fallen over the room like wet gray snow. I turn my head and all the sweet names you called me under your breath fly into the air to sting my eyes and rest on my lashes. Moving the comforter over, I discover the feeling of your hand in my hair has crusted icy and thick across my legs. My feet are bare and aching beneath a spare and unfailing promise of love. Have I not mourned you enough? A glacial ceiling of white and blue formed from the sharp crystals of your disingenuiously warm hands slithering across the white expanse of my back. I lie in the cool circle of your wasted voice calling, calling, calling; your fragile wrists shaking beneath the weight you pretend to bear.