Come morning, a sliver
of cold slipped through
a crack in the window.
The slow creeping ghost,
memory, nostalgia, even
crimson shades of regret
sifted through the leaves
and tunneled under the doorway;
I awoke with a shatter
to a turgid languor.
I lay in the swollen air, trying
to hide from and ignore
the shadows of seasons past,
got up hoping coffee would help,
and I felt around my neck that ring
that holds my cross to its chain.
You weighed more heavily
than you did in September.