Sunday morning, an acrid taste of coffee lingers
on the tongue and the night brought winter back.
Snow feathers the silent trees outside my window.
Not even old-man Crow graces the sky with his wings.
Half evaporated clouds obscure the horizon, touches
the ground, and tucks the rosary of international flights
into its silent and unyielding bosom.

I dreamt of strong arms that held me close as the storm
passed. A coat that smelled of musk and incense, and
dark roast coffee. Nestled close, I pressed my nose against
that smooth skin just beneath the jawline and breathed you
in. Summer sent her regards as she whispered of a knee to
rest my hand upon, and long shared silences. Moments of
stillness as the light flickers across the waves and not even
the seagulls have something to cry about.