I run my fingers across razor sharp hints of frost
The first signs of cold
sliced across trees by raging violent wisps.
Thin slivers of blood shimmer down the crystalline
coat of winter desolation
as these wounds gleam with crimson vengeance, cruel and empty.
Spatters of angry, scarlet disappointment gathering
in the pristine emptiness of this icy wasteland.
I do not feel this, I am numb to it.
To me, it is a gentle lock of your hair laying across
the soft rise of your collar bone.
I feel the passionate burning fire of your breath against
my neck.
Still, I have questions that these lonely trees cannot answer.
I lay down in the cold,
entangled in their ancient, deceitful roots
wishing they would provide me with answers.
But they only stare blankly
their sap laden mouths frozen, gnarled,
and silent
These are questions only you can answer.