poem I revised

Boston, Massachusetts, March 29, 1883

I.
My fingertips are sick with
The chill of your skin.
The maple outside our window
Taps the pane
Until I don’t hear it
Anymore,

Like the clock in our
Dining room that rings
On every hour, until
We stopped listening.
My cheek finds your
Shoulder

Cold and I wish
Your lips would press
Against my forehead,
Forgetting how un-kissable
You’ve become in the past
Hour.

II.
The wind echoes its song
To measure the emptiness
Of walls so bare they feel
Shame.

The sun sprawled in places
I didn’t dare to touch,
Illuminating particles in the air
Making them look like snow.

It reminded me of that December,
Walking through Delaware Park
With you and the snow under
The streetlamp before it melted on my skin.

Pacing on the concrete
Of your sepulcher floor,
My voice crawled out
Into the air as the draft chilled

Only my skin.
I wanted to be where you lie now.
The only thing left
Inside you, Consumption.