Cold Mornings

“It’ll be freezing by the morning,”
is what he said to me.
“So it’s best to lay her body rest
before our day turns eve.”

I thought of all the memories
as we dug her casket’s hole,
and of the God we both had worshipped,
Her life the one He stole.

I laid my hands upon her grave
her name carved into stone,
and I whispered her sweet nothings,
and it was cold, and I was alone.

I remembered how she’d mess with
and tousle up her hair,
and how the cold could make her eyes
and nose a pinkish fair.

It felt out on that evening
as it did on daybreaks with her,
when the breeze blew through the curtains,
and she’d wrap the blankets in a stir

I remember on a certain night
when I left the windows wide,
she argued and she fought me,
letting out a cry:

“Why must you keep them open?
Why can’t you let it be?
It’ll be freezing by the morning,”
is what she said to me.

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