three hushed
words
and a bleary window
looking in at me.

        it is not the bleak
        ness that bothers me.
        it is the coming of Christ
        mas, and the mistletoe.

it is the snowy slopes below:
Sunday morning
is tousled white duvets.

what have I left?

I have saved
these three hushed
words
which crushed me once…
crumpled in a drawer.
these are mine, these
and little more.

I try them on for warmth and freeze:
your paper hearts have faded and decayed
in the time since April mayed.

        three hushed
        worth
        less words remain,
        looking in at me.

what do they see?

the corkscrew rhapsody
of lavender
smoke, leaving me
in favor of the clouds.

it is not the bleakness.
perhaps it is the blackness
of the sky, some lingering
scent,

like three hushed
words… which kept you
crumpled in my drawer.