You hold me, watching the cold rain that stings my face and the clouds that hang about me on threads. I am fingering the hem of my coat and pulling the stitching out, they fall silently, black puffs of sky collapsing into earth and sinking beneath my feet.
I am holding your rose in my hand, The stem is curling around my wrist. The petals are sticky with film.
You run your hands over the glass, cutting yourself on my ghost.
You lay me to rest in the little box by your bed,
Photograph facing down.