Monday 1/11/2010 12:46:00 AM

Open doors. On the side of the bed. Surge with recognition. For former mistakes. Open doors. Deep slopes in her freshly fallen skin. Hold those footprints for much to long. After that travelers have gone.

It's been so cold for so long. The ground is made of glass. The air is thin enough to braid. Loud footsteps approaching and long strands that tangle up before I reach the end.

No one I would've known had I not forgotten who I was. Cold porridge and empty beds. For girls lost in the woods. And the animals that come home to find them.

Cold swings. Carrying her away. On broken legs and frozen blood.

She tells me how in burnt arithmetic. But I'm only interested in why. She's still counting.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2024. All Rights Reserved.