That Bleary Tempest

It must have been that caustic droll,
of some unkempt romantic tempest, 
folding black snow between his un gloved hands,

(He never gave us time.
There was never any time
for the apologies.)

Two years, since that fretful day
I raised my hope into the wind
to find any solace on your lips
partitioned,
as dry as stones of the moon,
frigid, craytored,
with absolute speech
and silence.

The unfortunate way
you cannot ever smile
as though your faith
crept away with one screw
too many
loose.

I'd resigned myself
to forgive and forget
your furious light-

the parchment clung to your skin
telling of remissions
you can't own clarity.

No conclusions
to be drawn across it's wrinkled tether
It's edge still draping my fingertips
whispering roughly

That missing you 
is somehow dissimilar
from the illness of loss.