I woke
Dead phone 
in lap
I recall selected
on an app
With photos
of you
From each
And every season 

​

I was warmed
by both
Your hat, scarf,
And a boat
We chartered 
for laps
In radiant sun
And soft lipped waves

​

My hands clung
To their bones
Ligaments hardened
And prone
To holding
You close
By hip
And on thigh

​

I now sleep
Hands to chest
Harboring heat
Until the next
Besides tracing
Along your breast
Outlining
Abstract shapes
In the night

​

It is the way
That you cried
Which came 
to my surprise
This reason
For stagnation
And hopeless
Forlornment.

​

My kindling 
Would not take
And All 
for the sake
Of a puddle
I had produced
Amongst the ash

​

It was 
the plop
And the sting
Which allowed
My heart to ring
A sailor's bell
And a dying beacon
Of light.

​

I held on
To the stoke
Not as warm
As I had hoped
For burn is
Not a sensation
I am privileged with

​

My hands
Do not callus
Won't cry
Nor cling
To my side
Yet hang
And yet twitch
Towards air

​

Phantom grasps
At smoke
From the bonfire
I toke
Of past
But unforgotten love

​

I'd enjoy no more
To burn these things
But for heat
Will not bring
The warmth
So acutely
Misplaced

​

So for now
It is summer
Yet snow
Hangs outside
Me and I
Lay beside
Cold piles 
Of wood
Newspaper
And gasoline
 

R. Thomas