the feeling I get
when frosted breath glances
off the that piece of cardboard
you mistake for a heart
shatters at the moment
the carrot is cut in half
no more neat, round circles
with neat, round ways
the following is growing, secretly
in my heart. The last to know
is my brain
when the shrine is gone,
replaced by books,
earth, air, fire, water
when the calender changes yet again
reflecting the last shards of piercing sunset
the heat is gone, the passion has ebbed
the dying embers mourn
for the love they knew
death is colored grey
And hands reach out, drawing a picture in the ashes.
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