I've got this winter feeling, and I fear I'll not last till Spring.
Obsidian shadows shroud your burnished locks, but it's not you
who beckoned the storm. You scarcely know you suffer,
but oh how the gleaming of your eyes bears witness
to my impotence! This misery, so sweet as to scald my tongue,
it's too acute to thrive in a sound. No, my monumental affection
lives somewhere in my throat, and my hands quiver,
when they should comfort. I know even my lackluster eyes
don't convey what my tongue cannot, but this I promise,
from the very core of my soul: I love you no less in silence,
my darling; it was for you that I ever breathed at all.
© Kerri Jenkins, October 18, 2002
