You want the postman’s body.
You plead, coax, persuade me. Ghostly lips cannot kiss, you say; spectral hands cannot touch. And I am achingly lonely.
We build a snowman in the yard, you and I. The postman stops to chat.
Behind my back, I grip the shovel: I can do this.
But then he leaves and I drop the weapon, tears hot across cold-flushed cheeks. I’ve failed you, my love.
Packed snow creaks and tree branches crack. I’m startled to see you in the snowman’s blank coal eyes. The shovel swings high overhead. Too late, I understand.
Any body will do.