It's your hands I miss
most.
When I got there,
they were already
cold
but pliable.
Still
not stone.
I lifted them to my lips.
Breathed on them.
As though I could
somehow
breathe
the life you had given me
back
into them.
It didn't work.
No,
wait.
They are
not
what I miss
Most.
They are just what I miss
Most
Today.
How I wish you had
allowed
that polished
shell
to be
turned
to ash.
Then I could have mixed
bits
of you with ink and had you
driven
into my skin.
So that
Now
I could look at my foot
and see your eye,
at my arm
and see your toes
at my hand
and see your
fingers.
So that I could
carry
your body in mine
as you carried
mine
in yours.
Almost.
Almost.