my back arches in response
to your midnight whispers,
wind kissing skin where touch has missed
i am an aching mess of what used to be

my desperate tears slip out with no warning
with the warring in my head
reasons knowing what the heart doesn’t
that perhaps, if i had asked you to stay
it might not be too late.

so come to me, darling,
won’t you fly the four year gap 
that my fingers may
scratch into your back
a map to go home?

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