You found me half-gone in a snowdrift and brought me back. Raised me from death despite death being a welcome guest.
For a month or two I called the peat-fueled hearth we kept home. You gave me handfuls of foraged seeds knowing that they would turn to ash. I took refuge in the warmth of your doomed fires. Hands on my cheeks as the wind creaked the house like a ship.
When I woke alone those few days past I supposed the farewell’s coldness was your gift. Should you ever return, I leave the last lines I write for you in the place we slept. You will know they are yours to keep, where we rested our souls. For I must now walk myself.