metonymy4u

Not even the ice

bitten
rain that drips
insistently
from a rose’s
thorn
can stop us
from talking.

But words are a crime
in weather like this,

stealing warmth
from where it is needed
around alveoli,
blood, and nail
beds.

Your love
inflected,
tells me I am more, made

of opiates,
or a paper cut
of disgust.

Blanket
teacher
over a wet wounded fire,

be gone:

The night born
and shards of yellow honey
made
me forget
and drool again.

Now I know what others know.

Now I can truly feel.