Glass Wounds

The frost formed quietly
in the fields of memory
and mirrors of hunger.

They carried silence
as a lantern of winter,

and spoke only through
smoke and glass wounds.

One still believed
the earth could heal.

The other survived
through the blue mouth of fire.

Fire leaves nothing untouched.

It takes away everything that
mistakes pain for permission,
to wound and devastate
whatever survives it.

Still, the fields continued
to darken without witness,

and the mirrors held their
fractures carefully.

They knew how easily love
could become an impossible
distance.

The cold entered them
differently, and stayed.

Past the language of wounds,
and the mirrors of grief,

Past the language of mercy,
and the names they carried.

Far beyond the reach of forgiveness,
and the possibility of return.

Yet still,
the frost gathered quietly
along the edges of the field,

and the last light of evening
set fire to their longing
one last time.