Poetical Musings - 4. Frigid

Sitting on the November balcony with

fireflies at our lips, we

listen to winter return.

Leaves shuffle like Tarot cards but

keep secrets to themselves.

I can feel your battered cheek

throbbing against my shoulder,

your fissured lip the only color

given to the night.

My hand comforts the

curve of your hip but there is

no warmth, only these embers

flickering and cold.

We are marionettes,

directed by a cruel general

to entwine ourselves together,

limbs to broken ribs and

lips to haunted eyes.

He has long since given up

on pulling us apart, but now

tightens our knots, hoping to

break the strings of our love.