that cold sort of day when the sky is bleached bone and the ground is hard
and sound is harsh and you are angry
the sort of day where the fires of your past are smouldering deep in your marrow and
you remember how it felt to stand in the halls of the dead and dance and laugh, your eyes bright as the glinting waters of the styx. 
two weeks to go now. maybe three - this new calendar is tricky still. 
winter is weaving its web, silver and shining with frost
and you will hold hades’ hand again, when the moon is bright and the stars waltz high in the heavens. 
for six pomegranate seeds you fell in love with a man with eyes like flint and hands as soft as the peaches you pick for your mother
and for six months you can see him and hold him and talk to the long-distant dead about their battles and sins, and listen to 
songs from a time before souls could speak.

and for six months you and he are alone and apart
and your mother runs with you to the wheat-fields with your hands clasped in the summer sun and you are happy.
but deep in your marrow the embers are burning still, and your berry-bright blood sings for him with every second.
your love. your part-time loss.

—  you are not as patient as the dead, not now, not yet (i.r.l)