Poetry

All night November, 
I was searching the vulnerable 
lips after loosing you. 
 
Now fingerless hands 
were moving the sun-dial 
away from light. 
 
The shroud was heavy, 
I would not breathe. 
Give me a blue moon before dawn. 
 
You cannot engage in 
sudden withdrawl. I will 
come back for a kiss. 
 
The paper that leaves a wound, 
I will not sign for the bread. 
My hands had stopped trembling.