To my Fire,
that had been chiseling my frigid ties—

So the fifth day had to rise,
upon all my worst wishes
and resistance
and anti-benevolent chastise.

The remembrances of your hair,
the smell of a sweet (now) hell,
and the
ungraceful
love that we would ballet
upon the bed…
(Oh!) It would muddle our heads
until we were crazed to a near-death…

The happiness of a good love—
that was not great,
but better than any I had hoped for
in all my days—
is now the dusk, the smite of
The Above.

The aisle will never come.
And my faith in an everlasting love is no more.

For you, the day we cried on the floor
holding, together
must have been nothing…
Or did you just want to delay
the end of all good days
that (only) you knew would never come?



With love,



Ice