Traces

Like shards of glass,

Evidence of the window pane

That has shattered

Into a fine, nearly unrecognizable powder.

Proof that there once existed

Protection from the elements,

And a visual landscape so vibrant

It would otherwise have been unimaginable.

Whispers of wind,

Like promises from the gods;

That they are in control

Of the calm and the torrent.

The shifts in our forecast,

That leave us vulnerable,

And unprepared,

For the storm on the horizon.

The evidence of a crime of passion;

Premeditated, or involuntary,

Perpetrated against us, by us,

Misdemeanor or felonious.

It matters not to the suspect,

Or the victim;

Only that they’re recognized

For who they are, or used to be.

Fingers mimicking your shapely frame,

Delicate to the touch,

So as not to leave permanency,

But only traces of having been present.

This is how the voids are filled,

The verdict is rendered.

The undeniable corroboration laid out

For two souls destined to serve a life sentence.