(For my friend, D.)
I can almost touch your pale skin,
our faces separated by a screen
that blurs, then clears,
and blurs again,
affording me only the sound of your voice
and silhouettes –
that I try to see from memory.
It is cold.
You are wearing black gloves
and rubbing your hands together
to keep warm.
I wonder if you will be here in the summer.