The far-flung eyes of Orion are closer than you are to living breath. On a winter's night steam from my lips can reach upwards and make them shiver. I have spent hoarfrost midnights singing to Jupiter rising, and he has moved across my sky to reach me. But breath cannot fight winter; warmth cannot fight cold; and a single momentary presence from which you turned away cannot fight a defined absence. Entropy is the last dance spoken, in the greatest and the least; and if you drift away from me in complex currents, your hair caught and fractal with the weed, I can do nothing, not even follow.
I would cut into living stems to find you, curled up like a pearl, in the seed-pod of a poppy, and bring you back. A ghost in the rings of an oak; a conversation I had with a distant autumn morning, 4 AM and sodium. I would have come to you or brought you home or filled your heart with grammatical dreams, had you let me. But you are Ophelia in the frozen river; your silences are your ice, and your flowers.