Snow flakes,
embossed with words
of love and hate,
feel like razor blades,
as they scatter and softly shear
fine hairs on my skin,
then hack through my flesh
and kiss my soul.
The pain of you,
of loving you,
never stops.
My turbulent mind,
an arduous anagram
of devastating emotions,
leaves me with no escape;
I want to close my eyes at night,
and not see you
leaning on the door jamb
to my dreams.
If I could catch
and burn each word of love,
I would be left with
a confetti of feigned hate,
and then
the pain of you,
of losing you,
would never stop.
The truth of it is,
I can’t burn snow.
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