when the cold leaves,
I expect you to return,
but why have you ripped the hood off of your jacket?
Why have you put frostbite in a bucket under the kitchen sink?
You know that I'll never look because mirrors don't erode.
Mirrors explode.

I know I've never seen a true reflection,
and crutches are only temporary.
but the bloom of an iris or two
or the chemicals behind your fingertips on my scalp
or that drugs that made us feel slightly north of worthless
meant more to me than
mountaintops mean to mountains.

Or than nothing meant to you.

Hypocrisy is worse than
when the seasons take too long to change or
when butane and razorblades
can't scar deep enough.

My bones tell me
that I am a magnet to nothing,
too.
I know that apathy seeps into my veins while I sleep
just like you.

I know that skin only peels off if you want skin to peel.

I know that days where the sun illuminates my bedsheets through the blinds will only heal if I can eliminate hindsight and look into the light with enough intent to illuminate, not to blind.

I know that I am trying.

What hurts the most
is that you are capable,
but with instability, my love,
our love can never be stable.