What happened?
You proved to me before
That there can be a fire
In the dead of winter.
But you are now just a shredded pile of ice.
No ember,
No fire,
Not even a residue of burnt woods.
I miss you—
So much.
YOU ARE READING
Loving in the Dead of Winter
Poetryloving you is like walking through those sharp glasses. it's getting more painful as I keep going.
