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The Cold
The cold comes slow,
here to carry me higher than the clouds, to a certain seraphic glow,
or maybe even down to the tenebrous hell--
slipping first into the tips of my hands,
going then past my wrists, beyond the meaningless bands,
onward up still,
till my arms are stiff and blue
and now no longer can I move my eyes to meet yours and you--
till the frost stops the beating
and hangs from my pale lips,
likened of iced daggers clinging to seaward ships.
I know, they know the darkness they choose to sail, but which did I?
It comes slowly, softly, caring…
to put an end to all my erring--
to freeze the fire that’s singed so many saints.
To kill a killer,
maybe that will still her,
maybe mend the fissure formed across her heart.
But it wont, could never,
wouldnt dare to suppose to sever
the worn thread pulling mine and her soul ever on.
That is the tragedy,
that always should she love me,
even now, frost fringed eyes azured and hoarish, summons of my own sins...
I’m so sorry, dear,
I never meant for it to end up here…
You have to listen,
For of all those days
spent in a mindless glaze
of fighting, dissention, and depression,
for of all of them--
for all we’ve ever had the pleasure to have been,
Listen to me:
If I’d another chance for us to be,
Of course I would, can’t you see?
But you’ve passed
and every moment we could have spent, locked in the past--
Oh god, why hadn’t I savored the last?
Oh god.
