Inky sky washed in the pitch-black
I could see your breathing patterns, quiet as they were
And in the cold, you gripped my hand
Chapped like yours, ugly, waiting
I sat in the solid snow—water murdered by white and grey
And I could see you breathing: air, air.
The winter killed us all.
I sat in silence (the deadest noise), no longer bathed in orange light.
The sky grew black.
Wet eyes: our wicked demise, our filthy goodbyes.
A contest entry
- Unrequited love by Smokebox.
550 points, ended December 8, 2008, 17 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
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Comments
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Maybe some negativity here? I love the background description. Good luck and thanks for entering!!
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