grey

the wind howls
it has been ten hundred thousand years
and you are all that i
cannot remember.
i leave you voicemails
on the branches of your
oak tree.
the letters i write you
are returned
without postmark.
i don't even remember
the colours
in your hair.
it scares me
that mine
is somehow
the same
shade.

your absence
has started to turn
grey.