(for Brendan)
by Danton Remoto

I wake up at dawn
to a storm of snowflakes
like small bits
of dead stars.

Everything is blinding
and empty,
like my bed.
No slope of your body

leaving its shape of sweat
on the sheets.
No fingers mapping
the unknown depths of skin.

No tongue rousing
the soul from its sleep,
drawing sighs as startling
as the flowers of spring.