That Cold

To my best friend, Hannan, who was lost in the mountains of Morocco seven years ago, without fanfare or tears shed from some important figure, but only a poem on what would have been her eleventh birthday.

She was just

Cold.

But she knew

That

Was the sign.

Cold

And nothing else was what was hinting

That

Soon she would not only be

Cold

But stiff, too, as the stiffness

That

Comes with Death's icy

Cold

Fingers wrapping around

That

Which is her

Cold

Body.