I don’t know what I see in the mirror.
A face. My face.
It’s not the light. Or the soul. Or the hope.
Parked in The Fort, walking to work.
Cold. So Cold.
March didn’t keep it’s tinfoil promise.
I dream of her. I recoil from love.
Kind. So gentle.
I want her to touch my face.
Maybe the afternoon will be warm.
Lost. Always angry.
I might walk to the water’s edge.