I lose my will in the winter,
like a lone flake melting against skin.

Too many men have frosted my windows
but I (needed them, I) wanted their slick ice.

When it was too cold to snow,
I would draw daisies in their hot air and smoke.

I let them leave, smoldering, holding onto their confining rays of sunshine.

"There are no more stars,"
he said to me,
"only steam rising from empty mouths."

I was beauty, I was, I was,
and I was even made for another evening,

but Dear,
I was never in love.

There is no winter where you are, no tears where you are,
only more gray light to dance the echoes of your face.

Now the salt of my legs dries in streams,
and the snow lingers to chill me,

but I will thaw, I will thaw, I will thaw.

And when it is over,
you will still be that man,
and I, still this woman,
wrapped, kept still
in your nothing.

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