January Sky

After the snowfall in the winter there's a sky so deep that it scares me to look up,

to know my fragile kitten heart belongs to such a universe.

My body is full of the cold recesses of that winter

no longer weeping for you,

but for our wealth of warmth

long lost among the gritty snowbanks of January. 

When you were a sweet locust bloom resting on my tongue

I might have died of self neglect

for want of worshiping at the crystalline temple of your mind and the venerated river of your body. 

I miss not you, but what I gave you

and everything is humbled for having known the care of my own love.

When I was small, six, eight, I was terrified I would not fall asleep each night. Terrified of being trapped in a dark world with my own restless mind. 

There is so much of me now that has disintegrated 

back into the nothing of the unused potential of my love.

I remember lying on your couch at two in the morning and breathing you in like a cure to loneliness. 

While outside the void of space watched at your warm windows. 

For a minute I knew the most pure happiness was to believe I would be your tenant.

And then, to wake up again, a traveller once more

ill accustomed to her warn in soles. 

Crumpled in the dark alley of my longing

I grope for an impossible thing 

that went trailing after you when you left

but that belonged to me. 

Memories of every little moment, no longer little,

so that even to be away for a second

was to fall into that January Sky.