We're standing in the middle of the forest
and there's no one around.
Your hand is in mine but your

skin is as cold as your eyes.
A bird flies aimless above us-
who is more trapped? you ask.

I don't reply, but my heart shakes.
I feel dead as the snow, curling down
like kinks in an old man's hair.

Everything is white, as though God
took his paintbrush and white-washed
all the emotion away.

I'm scared, though I don't show it.
I stumble. We move through it.
Your hand is in mine.