A stone
cannot be broken
but bent inside—
its fault lines
only strain
in harsh weather.

It does not
try to lift
or roll away—
just taught
to keep
its hurt
under hard gray
quiet.

It will stay
where it fell—
move only
if you kick it
or push it
away—
feeling nothing
but your hurt.

What bleeds
in you
only makes me
a stronger
boulder—
don’t hurt
just be calm
and come lean
against me.

She moves like winter—
soft, slow,
cradling the air—
her steps are untraceable.

A life of corners suits her—
neat, unassuming,
never begging for light.

She keeps herself
tight within a space,
the way a bird
tucks its wings—
precise,
as though her presence
can speak just as loud.

When she speaks,
her voice skims the air—
pale as a white crow
sharp as double blades
of a cold November wind.

Her words land clean—
a snowflake dissolving
before you can catch
its pattern.

Just notice—
the warmth she guards,
burning coals
behind her sober look.

Her wrists,
fine and birdlike,
trace the outlines
of her wilderness.

It waits—
in the curve of her jaw,
in the way her fingers grasp,
tighter than they need to.

When I spread
her legs wide,
like the wings
of her hungry mouth—
she is the shadow
of the snow
on a ****** field—
softness
with deliberate grace
a river that never asked
to be seen.

Her laugh
is the pill
I didn’t know
I took—

A side order
with wings—
It lifts
it stings
it loops in erratic
dark circles
through my
cranial attic.

They call it
love—
I call it
a persistent
condition.

The cure—
I’ll tell you
if ever
I can
stop
dancing.