Your voice still echoes
Your modern flaxen hair
Carved deep in my bones
I miss our crimson fire
Unbeknownst to words
I still adore your mark
And the memories that you left me
Forty-eight hours in the dark
And the reaper's scythe quashes me
The distance it takes to you now
Makes me weep
So until that day when o's turn to hyphens
If anything were to bend my beliefs
It's the hope to see your eyes in my dreams
