Raindrops coated your eyelashes
as you made your way to the navy van.
Lakota’s coffee and tribal chairs were waiting for you.
The light changed.
Three blocks away from your morning routine.
Two ends of the same string.
Hundreds of miles away, but I felt your tug
as you slammed the van’s door shut.
Grey splatters on an otherwise blank canvas. Bitter cold.
A smirk. You'd had the same thought as me,
as we looked out of our bedroom windows.
Forced out of hibernation.
The shirt I never wore remains folded in my oversized suitcase.
Your detergent clings to its fibers.
My frozen fingers pressed the phone closer to me
as you mentioned your new wool scarf.
A Christmas present from your mother.
Laughing, I told you I had received one as well.
But I’d rather borrow yours.
The wool warm around my neck
as you would wrap your arms around me.
