I was the bullet that ricocheted off of the last poetic organ of your insides. I ignited the December sky that hung itself behind you, never giving you anything to hope for as you crawled to a nearby gutter to nurse your wounds. Prior to the collapse of your broad chest, I peered through the small perfect window that the tenacity of me left inside of you. In a tip-toed fit of rage, the fists of my aggression targeted your apathetic eyes and all of the most sensitive parts of your face. My searing truths knifed their way through you; they left you smoking like the barrel of the gun that was the fleshy pink moistness of my inner jaw. My profanities wrote themselves in silver ink across your face. I started at your left temple, my fingers carved down to your chin. You wrapped me up in your stale embrace; you were a lifeless corpse with a cast-iron face.  I sunk my teeth into your flesh, hoping to taste whatever was left of you.
 The ache caped itself around me, tying my jugular like a noose. I, glistening and curled in my sapphire parka was both the volatility of a hurricane and the tenderness of a bruise. My fingers traced the strings on the insides of my pockets. Tattered and frayed like me, I clung to them in desperation the way children do. You were the gut wrenching hopelessness that draped itself over the broken wings of a still grey vacancy. Your horn rimmed glasses fogged from the breath of my cut throat generalities. In desperation, I sought to revive the words that died inside of your silences like helpless, abandoned beggars on the front porches of ruthless Decembers. You checked your watch as if you had somewhere else to be.

Unaffected
Sophisticated
You--

Limbless,
Gaping,
Me.

 No pavilion could save us, no white washed cedar with spiraling ivy, no honey suckle, and certainly not your beat up high tops that hung their hat by our bedroom door at night. There was no hope for any last, salty, drop of finger-curling, intimate sweat. There were no blossoming apologies to wreath themselves around our necks.

You were a glass house.
I was a flourishing hill.

 And with my lipstick stained, coffee soaked, haggard and beaten copy of "The Bell Jar," I turned on my heels and abandoned you in your own grey.  I left you to starve in your frosted cage, with the vacancy of strangers, in the piercing sludge of your Northern city.

 And I walked away.


 I left you on the street corner of Winter;

 I blossomed into a glorious May.