A woman is always an island, 2

at night the clouds, lit from below by reflection
from the icy concrete, take on tinges of winter:
looming and grey, they preside over a cityscape
that has allowed you to leave me again.
I pack on winter weight like it will protect me
from more than your loss: each pound a talisman
to fend off the wind, errant lovers, stray nightmares.
this last time, like so many other last times,
has a high price tag: when my hibernation
does not abate, when I let myself slide down
that silvered slope of cool, calm isolation,
you who have found me so unneeded will not
be surprised at how easy I find the letting go.