Shell

Winter, cold and distant
sits outside my window,
scratching lightly
in the guise of wind.

A fire burns inside me
that gives the illusion
of a flame boiling
in the hearth.

He is gone, my summer sun.
The taste of sunshine
lingers on my tongue,
an afterthought of love.

I sit by the fireplace,
staring at the remains of
walnut shells on the stone,
a grease-stained memory.

If I manage to
reconstruct the shell
with glue and tears,
will I be able to hide…

away inside?