There's little pieces of ice in the trees
and the branches whisper to me.
Half words that
fit together in my head
just like the trees want.
The wind sings, wrapping barely warm fingers
around my waist, cinching hard then soft,
wanting nothing more than to hear my heart beat.
The grass breaths, up and down, heaving, lowing,
gasping in the hush of days.
Passing with a sigh, no one knows but me.
No one touches lips to cool air
and tastes the breath,
like spider webs on my tongue, sharp and laced
down my throat. Dragging nets under my skin.
In me they find it too hot, pushing upwards, out.
There's ice up in the trees and silver in me.














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