339. Untitled

[hes]

The late autumn gales
sound hollow
against the battered windows.

The color grey is cast
against darkness -
like a shroud
of death upon the living.

Phantom fingers
draw themselves
against warm flesh,
raising goosebumps
on the way.

Each touch
like the faintest
whisper of sound
against pure silence.

Each breath
disappears
in the cool air.

Each gasp
falling
like the raindrops
just beyond
the world without.

A hush falls
as the starlight dims,
once more
I count the breaths
between each
and every
heartbeat.