Again. No, again.
I see your close calls,
the sound of your chilled voice
like white wisps drifting
upwards in smoke rings.
I won't be able to drift
into the reflective, stoic
black sea to become you.
I was obsessed with nothing
else, and you knew it.
I played with shuttered
images late into the night,
because nothing prepares
you for the bite of winter.
The harsh coldness on
aging skin, dancing dressed
in solemn colours, because
soon, the grave whispers and
you must part ways again.
The onset of arranging the
snapping of branches, the
thud of clumped snow, into
a perfect description of all
the trees tied with frayed
ribbons makes me doubt.
It's futile.
But I know that I must keep going.
YOU ARE READING
TO FAIL SO FLAWLESSLY
PoetryEDITS IN PROGRESS: A prose-poetry chapbook exploring themes of insecurity, doubt, lost fabrics, and what it means to fail so flawlessly.
