I see you in the picture,
where before the shutter opened, I kissed you – your long self stretches
and grins like a cat with a secret.
The heat of August had wrapped itself around us, made you forget your dreams of January – first of shivering alone, and then curled together beside the fire.
I might find myself, waking to your ghost, unable to push the memories of your slow freeze to rest, or to reconcile the darkness by which you were so quickly consumed.
It has left only ashes,
and now, as I sift, a white feather appears, falling, flaming,
from the wings of Icarus –
It smolders, warm to the touch,
carrying your message to the place of the spirits.
I pray that Cupid’s arrow at last will grace you with the fire of a thousand suns.