How cruel a thing it is to have known the warmth of you, and now be left to the cold remembrance of it.

I long not merely for your presence, but for the little intimacies of your being.

The softness of your breath beside mine, the warmth of your skin beneath my fingers, the sweet and sacred silence in which no words need pass between us.

Were you here, I would ask nothing of the heavens, nor covet another hour of eternity. I would only draw you close, rest my weary heart against yours, and let the whole of creation pass us by.

The world retains its beauty, yet none of it consoles me. For what is the splendour of the heavens when the one star by which I steer is beyond my sight? I ache for you in that silent and merciless fashion in which the earth must ache for spring, knowing it shall come, yet finding eternity in the waiting

For it is not the world I find wanting, my angel. It was you. Always you.