339. Untitled - October 20, 2001

The late autumn gales

sound hollow

against the battered windows.

The colour 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


in the cool air.

Each gasp


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


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