Ashes, ashes, we all fall down;
and I remember when
I held iced breath and
your frosted fingers;
tiny fingers, burrowing
so deeply into mine.

Pastel roses and
my atlantic tears;
falling, falling, falling
over buffed cherry wood
and breathless grounds,
painfully whitewashed by vacancy
and the guilty flashbacks I
cannot erase.

Your fingertips are left
to paint their bruises in the stars;
deep tones of viole(n)t and
crayon-box blues and
I’ll stand under creosote
if it means I’ll glimpse
the northern lights.

Ashes, ashes, falling down,
and you will always be
my snow angel.

The End

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