The snowflakes
they taught me
that something so
blindingly soft
can set delicate skin alight
Causing scorched red fingertips
I set my hands on fire as I bury them
A white inferno
Because memories
these memories
are screaming at me
A cauldron of tender moments and anguished faces and plans that have yet to be fulfilled, and never will be, and brusing and dying dreams and brilliant words laced with tired tones
And I wish I could burn them, the memories, like photographs
In a blaze, they'd all disappear
nothing but smoke, a warm whisper, of something forgotten
But the snowflakes
they taught me
the pain is only present
when I stick my hands in too deep