his flames lick the high ceilings
of my teenage years.
eyes shine out in the dark. he says
they are just as icy as his father’s.
he is ashamed. the plastic that
seals the windows ripples in the wind.
his birthday is in the coldest month.
my hands shake and I can hardly
light the candles.
they quiver. he will always be
a dove shuddering under the bridge.
No comments:
Post a Comment