You returned to me this afternoon.
Like a wild creature running from the winter’s chill you scratched at the front door until your fingernails were splintered and peeled back.
I let you in expecting someone else. I should have looked through the peephole before opening my home.
Hair matted with grime and teeth stained with blood you ran to me as a child would to their mother, arms outstretched, and held me close in an embrace which siphoned the warmth from my bones.
Darling, you were never one to commit to anything.
It was foolish of me to expect you would stay in your grave for long.