And I'd like to keep you as my unfinished story

Buried under the apple blossoms,

bordered with frost, and

blinded by smoky ennui.

I'd rather you fade into the lingering darkness.

It's tumultuous teal, an empty Sunday street.

Remain as the flowing words in the city of a rainstorm

inside my unfinished red book.

Be safe in the cold mud, damp and wretched.

It's snowing out of this book—

Watercolor painting of coffee mugs and ladies in black coats.

A lady stops and picks up a handful of snow:

Your past and my unshed tears have faded into the white matter.

We don't have any other world inside those inky words.

She smells it cold and walks away.

A few snowflakes trail through

the rim of the cracked glass;

how the curves of your lips turn into opaque red;

Fire dances in slow pain. (or maybe, snow pain?)

Maybe someday, she'd come and read you aloud

at some brown bookstore.