Id like to draw you a soul that fits mine.
The two halves of a small glass shell.
But.
You already lost your soul,

And mine has taken to spending lonely nights,
nestled in the trees
overlooking our stream.

Do you remember?
Do you remember telling me stories
about the owls
who carried the frost on their wings?

Only now do I understand,
the early spring frost wasn't caused
by these silent guardians.

Shoes muddy from soft banks
cool waves of rejection lapping at the shoreline of my soul
the frost tried to warn me,
an icy shield against you,
killing blossoms and decorating my heart
with snowflakes,
telling me softly, that eventually,
the warmth of your jacket would be gone.

The frost chilled me to the bone,
and my soul shivered,
trying to feel its frozen fingertips.
Honest hands cradled clockwork rhythms
and everything was warm.

Young and foolish I mistook this spark for love.
It wasn't you.
The warmth I experienced
on that frozen night
wasn't my love for you,
but my soul falling in love
with the early frosts of spring.

Never before had someone cared enough
to light a fire in my soul,
simply because
the brightest candles were made
to burn.

Unselfishly the cold mist caressed my being,
lighting a fire with the friction
of compassion.

You have long since faded from me life,
like a complex puzzle
left out in the sun.
You took back your jacket,
returned my books,
and left us lonely.

So I write my letters to no one
while my soul sits in our tree, staring hopefully
at the stagnant water
and wishing
for the owls to return.
Bringing with them
the unselfish frost.