I exhale fogged frost, trying to mimic
the way smoke slid from your chapped
lips. goosebumps rise
like braille across my back.
I look over my shoulder, as if
you might have come back
for me, as if we might
be together once more—
me; caught like a mouse
between your arms, you;
snapping your rat-trap
jaws with vigor.
the sky is unnatural.
I imagine men on swaying
ladders, coating the clouds
with that waiting room
hue. it is a lifeless color: it is painful
monotony, it reminds me
of you.
winter pities itself.
the trees play dead, comical arms
spindling up like bones.
winter is that emo kid
in fifth block, winter is cigarettes
& not-dead skeletons, winter
is watching my breath
as it leaves, knowing it can never
be taken back:
paint, like the words raised
on my skin, like you, walking away,
MEL GROSS is a high school senior with words to spare.
