There are flowers sitting in a vase on my desk,
the afternoon light makes them glow - shades of aureate
and fleshy coral, and new snow, and the warm burgundy of
lips swollen from kissing too hard, and they are quiet there
in the sunlight, soaking up my own silence and the softness
of the sorrow that has wrapped itself around me like a blanket.
The nights have been cold lately, autumn has settled in
and made itself comfortable. It has unpacked its things;
it is staying for a while.
Meanwhile, my heart shivers in my ribcage,
complaining of the frore that has burrowed
so deeply into my skin that every moment it sinks further,
digs deeper, cracking into my bones like a robber breaks
windows - the glass splinters, spider-webs outward,
fracturing in a hundred different directions only to remain
somewhat intact, only missing a few pieces, just enough
to let something in that shouldn’t be allowed to pass through.