Awake, with palm itching from wedding scars.
Eyes are drawn close like curtains, keeping out
the ghosts of a winter morning.
There’s no face in the mirror reproaching us.
Her breath counts snowflakes on a frosted window.
Two bloods mixed, making one in return.
A sea in her belly, something waiting to
be washed out onto a waking world.
Whispers before reason go unheard.
And winter can bloom in blood
and sanctify the snow with it’s stain.
I hold so much in my hands I cannot control.
Some strange shard will decide it’s fate.
Fate coming from black depths within her sea.