The ache,
Seeping through marrow cracks,
Like the cold from a blue norther.
The shadow of wholeness left behind, reflected in pictures of messages that sustain me without your sun.
Faith in the plan,
some days fragile, threatening to topple with moth-winged-winds but no more blind than the moon crescent winking at Venus.
Tonight, sleep will bring your face before me
And Gilead ghost-touches on my skin.
I am here.
Waiting.