at night, a hard pillow to press my heart.

Too perfect, this snow, filling the remnants
of our passing steps.  Under frozen, drooping pine
we stayed the trail, and I held my hazy breath,
desperate for our gaits to realign.

Yet I have circled this building with him before.
I have followed him to these seats before.
I know his countenance will darken to sepia,
and I think - how will he hurt me now?

As if sliced by jagged glass, he splinters
as I knew he would, until I can no longer pinpoint
which lover it was, who was mocking me.
When he said I could not be loved - touched -

wanted - never - because I was not her
only myself - I could not pause.
His figure was a smear of shadows,
unrepentant to my screaming, or otherwise.

I could not distinguish if the locks
were of gold or chestnut hue.
I could not remember if his eyes
were fawn or spiteful blue.