Thursday, 17 May 2012


I will never rid myself
Of the station where I wait
As your sliding eyes smear me
With the warmth of disdain
And your tears curve upwards
Where the corners of your mouth

Still, my skin flakes
Tracing the shape
Of your steps
So recklessly delicate
In the Summer Snow.
Winter burned with envy
As I burned my clothes
For warmth.

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