I kept your birthday
written in my calendar—
in a vague hope that by January,
we’d be able to speak again.
The naked skeletons of trees
bear the white virginal blossoms
of awakening springtime,
yet if you stared serenely
into the wind, you could still feel traces
of a bitter winter’s frost.

I try to search your eyes by
bashful glances, you withdraw
at every opportunity we could possible see
a trace of humanity within eachother.

You keep me well confined
within your silent tomb—freezing
away any warm-blooded soul
that dares to approach you.
Woman of ice, maiden of
annihilation— shrinking
into some faint white sliver,
waning into the vast night sky
of oppressive black.
Spring has come
for the rest of us, but
the ice never melted for you.
And If I weren’t certain,
you would only resist the light,
I would have tried to revive you.

The newborn leaves, the hopeful
blossoms—to you they are worthless;
your heart as bitter, and fatally
naïve, as the bleak winds of January,
your convictions as stubborn as permafrost.