A soft breeze with the slippery concrete black and full of muddy slush,

contrasting with the hoarfrost,

clean and hung on a tunnel of silent shivering trees

(the ones you said you'd like to be),

and the birds that screamed at the sun

now buried deep down below the ground,

beneath the snow, I press my shoulder to this wall between us.

I know you are behind me and I press my shoulder to this wall,

determined not to turn around.

I didn't see you standing,

still that statue that I molded in my mind to kiss,

so beautiful you'll never move again.

Someplace far away, at some sad table littered with chipped plates,

with bad light,

in 48 frames from a movie on the cutting room floor,

you said