I've been thinking about your kiss pressed
to the flat of my shoulder blade at 3 a.m.,
and what forever feels like, and what the
difference is between the two. I remember
standing in the snow, both of your
hands encasing mine, with all of our
promises in our palms. They were precious,
and sparkling, and we kept them warm.
I want to worry about white bedsheets,
and burning dinner, but I don't know how
to do that when I'm worrying about getting
through each night. I still have the picture
from the night you tried to save me.
I'm sorry, it didn't work.