this has been said so many times before:
your words like ice, like ice,
sharp and cold and clear and
leaving no room for the benefit of the doubt.
a dagger that stabs and leaves no trace,
a wet wound matching you glare for glare.
when you act like this i hate you
like you hate me when you act like this.

misery on default mode, the kind of mood
that wraps an entire week up and
binds it into one long fever. silence
that is hard to come by and even harder
to banish, the clank of humanity
moving slow, miserably muted.

one winter you grabbed me around the waist
and said, skate, skate, run and jump and fly
and leave little trace: thin lines
on thinner ice. the track indistinguishable
from the cracks, the distance between us
less and less as i rolled off your hands.

these days the sun is glaring,
and leaves no room for aging or sight.
the dirt tracked in at the front door
illuminated each morning, the glow
between us diminished at night:
the monthly disruption of ego and
shining light where darkness loves.