indigo liquid
aimed at a page through a point
traces on fingers

When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

-Khalil Gibran

You say I don’t talk, don’t share,
feelings frozen over, in hibernation,
hermetic as the laden ice-covered branches
cutting you off from the core of who I am.

But the cold and slippery truth is
if I melt these icicles and
stand before you, naked and trembling,
I no longer could pretend to be your ideal,
conform to your projection of perfection,
and your rejection is more than I could bear.

I would become so very weightless and inconsequential
that you could blow me away
simply by the sigh of your indifference
like a snowflake in the wind and bitter cold,
disoriented and adrift in engulfing whiteness,
lost, like a million others.