Though my feelings have long since dimmed,
and the trace of your perfume lingers only in the stale air,
I dreamed of you.
Though my hands no longer remember your shape,
and the poems I wrote for you sleep where no voice can reach,
I dreamed of you.
Now, in the coldest night of this winter,
the memory of your skin burns like an absence.
This is the final verse I offer you.
After it, I will leave in silence,
until your shadow calls for me again
from the depths of a gentle dream.