This is not a poem I will write to you.
With winter so far ahead in its tracks,
I will not have time for forgiveness.
I will not have time for regrets.
What there is to be said, I would like
For it to be said in gentle voices,
with sleepiness, eyes and laughter.
I do not place you in words.
You are lingering somewhere in between.
The line, the phrase, the simile.
It does not fit, it does not do!
It feels wrong to write of you.
I am cruel when I think of winter, and put others in my lines.
The winter is cruel, also. It hides my heart.
I do not want you to be gentle.
When you leave, I want you gone.
A thousand questions haunt our mornings.
Did a lover ever hold you until dawn?
Have you ever revealed a secret to anyone?
Is it a secret I don’t know?
Be gentle when I cry and leave.
Do not embrace me in false reassurance.
Do not lie as others have.
If you must, kiss me and smile – then be gone.
I am not used to loving, understand.
Selfishness is an innate weakness.
I have inherited it, and it shows best
in the winter, when I am strong.