Fingertips/Empty

I remember cold winters and wet gloves
waking up at half past six on weekends
but never too tired to take care of you
to crack the ice over your bucket or sweep the stable within an inch of its life

the cold was worth the quiet
no one came to the barn when temperatures dropped or when snow froze over
I took care of all the horses as if each was my own
but I lingered by you

my fingertips would be rough by the turn of each spring
rubbed raw from each morning spent rugging you up
learning more about your habits, your likes and dislikes
because I'd never been so in love with life until I met you

I've cried many tears into your chestnut mane on those mornings
and on heavy nights half way across the world I still think of where you are, or wonder rather
because I no longer have a place to go where the world is so quiet as it was back then
there is space in my heart that only you can fill

On snowy days in London
a rarity, if that
I ask how something once so full
can now be forever empty?