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Feb 2019
Ice
I knew it wouldn't end in fire;
We burned
Too fast, too enjoyably, to suffocate
In flames.

I found the scab, the source,
Small and round and secret.
Incapable of leaving it to heal, I finger the edges
Nervously until the blood flows
Cold and jealous and foreign and unforgiving and slow.

A tipping point we can't reverse out of,
We're frozen on the event horizon,
Empty like the air in February,
The oxygen burned out from our explosion.

I am only left with regret and this
Sense, clear and dry and freezing, that I've walked
Too far north and lost the sun,
Though clouds still part in the distance and wave
Toward the open spaces
With fingers unfurling in unnatural curls.

I claw back to calm from
Calamity and speak, knowing I have listened
Too deeply to words meant for other ears - words that do not tell
Me what to say in return - I am raw.

I stand at the edge of mercy,
Abrupt in my humanity,
Suddenly losing feeling in my toes.
N R Whyte
Written by
N R Whyte  Toronto
(Toronto)   
726
   N R Whyte
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