You are like a long passed season.
As delicate as the footprints of sparrows in freshly fallen snow.
Intricate, yet so easily disturbed when care is not taken.
Somehow, you have managed to persist after all these years.
Residing in the same quiet place you carved into the woods so long ago..
Only a short ride from the sea.
When you cross my mind, you carry with you the scent of that shoreline.
Harsh and thick, yet somehow placating.
Though the weather was perpetually gray, misty, and cold.
Much like your heart had become..
Just before we painfully, and slowly, parted ways.
I recall with deep longing your fascination with foxes.
With the way they would trot up and down the beach in the early morning,
Their coats most often wet and muddy from crossing into the tide.
I could see the subtle enthrallment in your eyes as they dug for clams.
They would thrust their forepaws deep into the muck, throw it backward..
And at times, to my assuagement, you would smile.
Now, it feels more distant than anything else I harbor within.
The days in which I think of you grow farther and farther apart..
And each time you return, you come as a wave, crashing harshly against a seawall.
A seawall that is damaged; weakened by time.
When you crawl back, you take pieces of rock with you.
Pieces you have no intention of returning.
At times the trees, bare and cold against the slate sky of Winter,
Remind me of the veins in your arms.
Spiny and sprawling, both raw and elegant.
Neither blue nor green; trapped beneath pale, translucent skin.
Skin I felt could not have possibly lived through the things it had.
Could not have possibly traveled so many miles.
Weathered so many storms.
Endured so much agony..
Your eyes were endless and earnest.
Vivid despite the decay you embedded yourself within.
A work of art, hung carelessly in an abandoned building..
You were entirely alone, unappreciated, unseen.
Forever hidden inside yourself.
Forever trapped behind walls built from pain.