Your name came like a ghost
in that frosted windowpane
I stood in front of;

our hands connected
with ice on our fingers,
skeletons in the winter;
cursive’s not bitter
when crafted from
our own breath,
no longer distracted with
our own death,

until the glass shattered
and pierced our faces;
created art we couldn’t
possibly start,
nonetheless end—

yet we did,

again and again
and again.