Love’s Grief

Would that I could rise on wings of grace
to soar toward the mountains of our past,
once there, alight and look upon your face
and hold the hands of time to lock them fast.

I would gently trace the contours of your lips,
still sanguine; tinged with luster, full with life
and lie within the valley of your hips;
abandoning all hopelessness and strife.

But with wings furled and grace a stranger here;
the mountains sought, all lost in shrouded mist.
I stumble; cold, bereft of hope or cheer,
for bloodless husks cannot return a kiss.