My heart shriveled inside the gut,
like stale bread crumbs from last night.
Even two nostrils could have pumped blood,
and empty words could have churned love poetry for a living.
I could have fucked logic in that case,
and married practicality for a change.
The night was spent jostling with ghosts of a not very distant past,
the morning was all snow.
Snow, white as the leaves of a notebook at the start of the term.
Snow, white as the promise of a fairytale.
I dig for a fistful, the snow is hot;
Hot, as the ambered eyes that wept all night.
Snow, numb as forlon love.
I dig yet deeper to feel the soil,
the mulch of dead leaves and broken promises foils my progress.
A mulch, which carries the hope of verdant pastures,
once the winter is over.