cold.

Stretched across a bed, crafting the words
I never mean for you to hear, I do
my best to fill the space between
my fingers where your constellations fade.
I cannot hold this air myself, no matter
how persistently I've tied balloons.
The neon stretch splits easily, I don't
know anymore just what I know.

If I could sleep and wake in spring,
rise to new light and optimism there,
I would. If I could die within a
winter snow to save you ounce of pain,
I would. I'm not sure where to turn,
I've gone from stabilising self, from
letting go to reds and metal slits, to
knowing heart beside my own, two eyes
that watch, a second mouth to crest with
sharp inhale each time the blade draws
near. But I cannot let go.

This winter's mine, still not to hold
upon your hand. The chill draws near again,
I tell myself this love is still enough
to thaw these sheets.