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Where do I start? I miss you.
Blue runs through your veins
against your pale, freckled white skin.
Red is what pours
out, like the ketchup bottle
that no one ever shook before using.
It sits in the fridge, far
from the mustard.

Loss is an infection, which
gets worse as it is left untreated.
Worse & worse
as each day apathetically passes by.
The empty swing set creaks
welcoming
the wind and blowing autumn leaves.
Naked branches dance
preparing for the winter's
first attack of frost.
A lonely tulip reaches
up for the pastel blue
and creamy white sky of spring.
The waves crash hard against
the rocks as the
hot summer sun beats down.

You can't see these elements
outside of your window.
Not now.
These things exist only
in the place where we once existed.
Seal and stamp the envelope.
This love is an infection, which goes on when left untreated.