It is grey- like that time last year. When you picked me up.
The rain on my face like the tears in my bowl.
Don't bother waking up because your shadows no longer lurk.
Who do I carry down the stairs-
Last winter twasnt too long ago. And your cold frost memories slip under my door.
They slip through the cracks.
And there you are again. A cold puddle I step into in the morning on the floor.
When I least expect it you've returned.
Not even to face me
But with your back turned.
As if to remind me what you took, without giving me another look- I've died.
I've been dead since that first cold December morning.
