Your Soul

The snow rains away, for one day the temperatures seem bearable. The apartment warms up, the double covers, it's no use, I still shiver in bed. It occurs to me that I have forgotten your voice. Voids fill up with maniacal laughter and a stuffed calendar, but there is a moment every night when I wonder what the hell I am doing. On the television, she giggles in coke, but I'd be satisfied even with a little gunpowder. The Brooklyn tulips have withered, rotted. They spread their frail petals along the window sills, stems stretching into eternity, but there is no spring to be had. Yet. It will snow twisted book pages for months to come.