I think of your cold hands in the frozen forest,

And wonder whether snow will settle

Over all of the sparkles I’ve attempted to thaw from my memory.

 

The hurricane has yet to pass.

 

I regret for all of my masochistic muses

That when it does,

Then,

I will be shaken off my feet

By the abrupt silence that echoes,

When a dream is struck down

By the past.

 

I will follow you through the storm.