it's that time of year again
when winter's roguish lips kiss the trees of summer
make them blush the same red i blushed
when you took my child's hand and i became a woman
the whispering green that soothed my fevered nights
rots away into a brilliant bloody rug
that cushions my bare feet as I stumble my way through
another winter pilgrimage without you
and suddenly i'm wrapped up
tangled in the smother of winter-white blankets
that do not quell the goosebumps as much as
warm woolen sweaters used to do
the skeleton of summer's embrace resists
remains throughout the tundra's subtle tyranny
survives as i survive, holding onto th
you should read the words he writes to me
what he considers a prologue, really
an almost-epilogue to us.
a different face, a different name
he's trying so hard to be you but
darling, he just isn't.
he's a plagiarist
a copy-pasted Casanova
singing sonnets with your stolen mouth.
how can i appreciate the orchids of his heart
when every time i try
i breathe you in?
in the faded watercolours of the early morning
i leave my bed behind
the yellow faces of my front yard weeds
bidding me farewell in the glow of the street lamp.
i feel you in the bite of the air
against my fingers and my face
if they weren't an artist's hands, i'd hold them out
for you to take in yours again.
it was never my intention to let the silence well between us
until we stood on separate edges
with only whale song to remind us
that there once had been a bridge.
but two years is much too big for either of us
to ever hold in an embrace
or to keep this bridge from breaking
in this ebbing ocean tide of ours.