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.