…once I held those fingers in mine, and they were warm…

go slow, dear, and don’t make it seem like the world’s pressing down upon you like a thousand angry angels—— once I sniffed a yellow flower when winter roared around me.. one petal rested in the air above me.

You take your problem, finger every curve and crevasse in it— again, again! how you must whimper, alone in your own riverbed—

but the empty freezer you think you are needs defrosting. once I held those fingers in mine and they were warm.

go slow, dear— close your eyes when the snow chafes against your cheeks- sniff the air when the ocean brushes against the sand- when lightning scorches the land—

and know: once I held those fingers in mine, and they were warm.

Let go of this dead flower, brush aside the snow,

these cold hands, white and wan, like yellow rags of clouds at sunset, like sand-dusted corpses in moonlight, they are not real; they are not real; they are not real, and they are warm.