She settles on my heart and lights a candle.
Her purple skirts rustling
tickling like the flutter
of a sharp inhale.

My lover at the door.

I descend the stairs
while the badger in my chest beats itself against my ribs
desperate to escape and to know
in new ways the hand that rang the bell
and woke him up.

At the door
swung open in the flurries of snow;
blustering and cold
are footprints where once my Love had been.

all there is
is a card in the snow
And two small words:
"Not yet."