we write things that will never go anywhere:
Slats the right size for fingers, noses and peeking we watch the snow. Snowflakes, we are such different sizes, you and I, lying beside each other in the dark staring at the ceiling as if the flecks of silver are stars.
In the morning there are footprints beneath the window ledge where the roses once were. Plucked and tucked and tied and left on gravestones, petals struggle and wilt and the dead are left gifts of the nearly-dying.
Reminder. You were this beautiful, once.
Sometimes it’s worse than a mirror but it doesn’t matter if your eyes have long clouded over. We see what we want to see.
It’s a taunt, I said, on a crystal Thursday morning just before the temperature dropped and the shutters clanked against the siding and had their own conversation about the weather.
You told me it was tradition, like pebbles.
I don’t remember the day I knew I didn’t love you, sitting in a chair by the window with the electric fireplace on, ribbons around my ankles to remind me it was all downhill from here
bloom to boom
red was always our hardest hue to hold.