crawling low, the rustle of fabric under
screaming, and down the path i know you’ve
already left behind. you have low standards,
i know,
so anything higher than just above the bar
grabs you until you’re bruised blue.
my nerves are screaming.
yours don’t need to.
i drip all over the snow down the hill,
crying rust,
painting my trail through the ice asphalt
turn mirror showing two people
down one path
shrinking
and gone.