There is ice creeping through my bones
as frost branches on glass. I watch
my spirit sink
low, laden and opaque,
and curl at my ankles, glossy eyed and still.
Colours have faded from my vision.
Days are all written in black and white:
time encasing each within sterile walls,
smearing insides to grey.
I can't say when I will sleep again
with the light off, my inside door open,
or lie on the shoulder
that turns me toward you, waiting.
You kiss me every morning,
despite the sore that burns my lips,
and you rub my cold hands--
you will stay.
I'm the one who knows you,
and your eyes shine a light upon me.
When I find my stem to grow my leaves on,
I will turn them all toward you and yield
the rewards of patience.
