Possibly the first winter.

I've lost my time,
For they have all died,
Their are voices are the grammar phone,
Their accent, the evening leaving for night.
The heavy of dresses, the layers of warmth,
The thick of velvet curtains,
The draped finery from overseas.
The fine woods and grand fire.

I have the whisper in my heart,
The everlasting of the beating breath beneath my palm,
The light echo of a bird at dawn,
The mist that lay upon the English morn',
I have been fortunate in it's beauty,
I have seen the tests of time,
For I have lived no longer than you,
But breathed in the musk of the passing line.

I find that by still flame, release,
Oh sweet release.
I see pale skin and delicate embroidery,
I hear his smile, that perfect grin that cups his eyes,
And the rest of the room sinks into darkness.
I've not slept, I have not winced,
I have dreamt by his side, ever,
I have wilted like the lasting rose.

I have looked no further than the day,
Only ever lost within the past.
I long as if the lives portrayed were mine?
My veins visibly pulse within these wrists,
Oh the finer part of my body.
The slim, golden bars of the cage flitter in the candlelight.
He is no longer here,
A hand clenches. Tightens.
I have lost the will to stop writing,
And with the gentle chill of September giving in to Autumn,
I grow hungry, once more, for onward, for it all to begin.
To begin being the past.