March was melting
snow and bated breath
between us, in us, ran out of us.
It turned like an egg and split
open. There, you leave
a warm kiss,
and I leave myself
out to dry,
panting
after your fleeing scent.
Wind races
into the fold,
the matter of the difference
between us,
the life of our love.
Everything hums.
You gasp,
and I plunge
into your silence. I scavenge
your fear. I rescue
your righteous anger.
Your eyes fluttered at snow-speed,
and your ice heart
sliced what’s left of me—
—sits in the cold of you,
the softness of you,
still, yet
melting snow,
and I thought
of nothing. Of living
in the nothing of you:
the sweet seat of Almighty Love,
in a dead field,
grows a thistle.
It has yet to bloom.
