December Flame Poem by Jose Armando Guzman

The rhythm of the rain still stains the memories in my mind. It was the way the melody played on the tin roof as the rain fell that early December morning. The air was ice cold as we slept underneath the blankets waiting for the sun to peek through the curtains. Those simple moments that will be hard to shed from my skin. There is not enough whiskey to wash your finger prints from my entity. I will try to retrace each and every foot step up to that apartment that overlooked the city. My bones will remember the freezing nights and the warmth of you kisses and the inferno that no longer burns.