Absolute Paradoxes

Digging for the ground. So many breaths between us. Finding the soil. Broken lipsticks. Smudge the smile of the whore. Gentle kisses of cold as I struggle with the weight. Of winters just beginning. Unlikely to ever end.

A surplus of dead men. Threaten our white world. As it shimmers. Content to leave us stranded. In the prisons we call progress.

I found the exit eventually. I gave the wind foul nicknames. Until the road solidified under my cold fingers. I wrote to strangers. In broken heels and missing sunglasses.

Blind and squinting as I shovelled. Through their footprints in the snow.

Listen. She said. The cold is coming.

And I can't undo it. Because it would never have happened if I did.

Listen. The cold has so many plans for us. Nervous icicles pretending the sun doesn't matter. Shovels deep in the weight up the weather. Look for the sun.

The cold. The ice. It melts eventually. But not before everything is dead.