Between May and December
many things change.
I’ll do the falling
if you’ll clean
up the mess,
she says with closed eyes,
glowing. All the stars
in the universe
won’t save you from
breaking. Tamed,
she walks the snows
like lonely Saturday nights,
suffers too many li(n)es
woven into two-
hour unhung
afternoon
windows. Un-
heroed: she offers
the exquisite absolution
of her scars,
pale scalpel-sighs
on wrist & thigh & page,
stale redemptions in
unlit firelight.
I won’t burn
without you.