The warmth of each image grows cold
as icicles betray their corners, trickling
with heavy tears that gather below me
in a pool full of lost memories.

I keep them in a box to be withdrawn
in times of weakness when they awaken
the songs and smells of walks in autumn,
and drip like rain into my silver cup.

And when my lips are pressed against hers,
and my hand gently supports her neck,
I lift her up and partake of a potion that once soothed,
but now burns as arsenic in my chest.

She will burn until the vessel of my pain
runs dry and the warm tears like ice
lose their movement and memories
cease to be inspired by her name.

And I will gently remove the photo
of us from its case, fold it in half,
and let its frozen corner come alive
in the burning wick of an autumn candle.

And when she melts away, and the flame is quenched,
I’ll take care never to look upon her winter face again.


Copyright © 2007 Matthew Stephen Valdés

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