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.