Take the smooth out of the mouth and place it into hands

of those who hold

sheets messed, lips pressed

feet walking, slightly depressed

tracks in a barren land of snow

snow as white as our intentions, as blank as the path we follow

look back, see tracks

they don’t tell me where to go

the wind blows, hair sways

i look back to the most golden day, sky was pink

flushed with the rushing collision of two

walking, following, leading

back to lying

sheets messed, noses press

fingers strumming the skin, sensations like

trapped reverberations

louder than the silence of miles