I trace my hand across the page
of that book you loved so much.
Trace my fingers through the lace,
of the scarf you used to touch.
Trace the outline of your face,
on the glass of the picture frame.
Trace my fingers through the mist,
as I’m still spelling out your name.
You left a trace, no so much more,
on that day when you left my side.
I trace a teardrop down my face,
it’s this grief that I just can’t hide.