i can feel winter's snow approach
long before its clouds.
as though snowflakes accumulate
on my bones in mounds.
to insulate a cold
invested in thoughts
of catholic girls and bedrocks
and self doubt in abandoned lots
left for erecting the days worth reliving,
i wanna see the warm breath on
a cold day, where we once laid,
carving angels, with our arms
fixed at right angles.
we were a painting brushed white, framed by a self fulfilling fallacy;
the way these winter dreams now appear to me.
it looks so perfect, you won't see it now,
as you sleep indoors above hardwood floors,
floating much like a ghost i loved, a crutch i broke,
when i fell to my knees over the words i spoke, that seemed
scripted enough for you to brush off.
it's fitting dear, for me to fear the sun, when you wake
to the smell of fresh roasted coffee, placed in your hands
by some man more inclinded to shovel
sidewalks, than pace over ice in long socks
i'll be that snowman you built, that tilts into puddles,
the holiday chocolates, lost in your pockets,
a single drop from the icicle, on the gutter,
that falls to your lips.
as i fade til you think of me only seasonally.
Created: Feb 06, 2010Document Media