to begin the next

you just
want to wear
the inside
of her hand,
like it was yours.

it's one of those
days
that there are storms,
hovering, over
the breath
of phoenix.

she's nowhere
to be found.

she won't return
your texts,
your emails,
your prayers.

you've done something
wrong.

she's gone.

you will never
hold her face
between
the skin
of your hands.

you know this,
worse
than than that one,
that
always make you
cry.

she's gone,

and all you can do
is spy on that valley
of lights
below,
and initially begin
imagining
the next.