Eurydice to Orpheus

Eurydice does not speak to me easily. This is a work in progress.


I want to be here
The other life has blurred;
and though I can feel
the sting that runs like fire
through your fingers
burnt by stringed flames,
its winter here
and slowly, I am forgetting.
Sometimes when my
feet stir a memory
of blazing winter suns
deliciously burning my soles,
I remember
us
as I walk precipices
on midnight days.