I call her again, that dream, in a restful sleep. She does not answer.

Copper and carmine combine in the fireplace, dancing to the familiar song of the season. The wind whistles as the witching hour begins, and good fortune trickles down onto the sheets of snow. Tomorrow treks through the wretched weather, and I am awake, brewing pot of tea after pot of tea, anxiously awaiting her arrival.

When I am a corpse, grey and gaunt on a metal table, men will shake their heads and frown, their hands high above their heads, hurriedly hurling condemnation at the one man in particular, who has my blood on his hands. When I am still alive, fighting for each breath, feverishly screaming, I find the…

The city is a collection of jewels, shining out across the dark night, glittering as I gaze from the window sill, watching the sky for starlight, and a sign of the sweetheart who watches the sky too. We do not share the same moon, because she is back, where we used to reside, but someday…