winter

oh Icarus, you poor thing.
fell in love with the sun, the sky-
paid the price, i suppose.

why do we always pay the price for love?

Orpheus, lonesome poet, 
lost his love because he wanted to tell her they'd made it.

In my attic I keep my heart. 
I hold it there, safe amidst pillows, blankets and childhood stuffed animals. 
When I make things, I break off a piece of my heart, 
and sew it into pillows,