The Hundreth Day Out- I Wished It More

I loathe the light of breaking dawn as it snatches my dreams of you. Your face appeared for a moment- Your breath- a brisk, soft wing- the pressing of your side, I felt...then gone. The goblet I have not rinsed, as the last drink of wine was from your lips. I gave you "Ann's Beautiful Daughter" in our second year, once pink, but now dried. It died between the pages of your favorite book. I inhaled your perfume as I slept last night, my drug that let me sleep on, to dream- and as I awakened and cursed the sun I realized it was the hundredth day, I wished it more, for with time the world might be less grim. I listen for your voice- in the songbirds, the rain, the wind rushing thru leaf-gallows from trees, but the silence is deafening. It creeps into corners and slides down the walls, and when I call it back the lips part to shout, but it cannot be heard. I say your name to feel it form on my tongue- to hear it echo a familiar ring...in the room... down the hall- to fill a barren space. I repeat it over and over until it sounds odd. Then it falls from my ears and reaches up to caress my face.