Everywhere the trace of early winter, the hard clarity of something missed. Helpless as shadows we are haunted by the light breaking into pieces across your desk where books, papers, your glasses exude a sharpness delicate as the sun burning depth to the room. And in the letters we forgot you kept, the old papers falling from books, we are reminded as we hold your picture like a breath, finger the cross you once wore: words we can never say hang around our necks.
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Warren Wedin email@example.com