unreachable

it is so easy to become lost in time. each days feels both like forever and a whisper of infinitely small moments. i am self-inflicted lullabies and warm, familiar smells. i am dry yellow hair. i am introuvable, buried under cascading torrents of snow and foliage, no hint of my dead body under the landscape.

last night, i dreamt of cracks in walls and infections.

i tend to project
ideas of december onto you,
even though you've told me (again and again)
you were born in a sticky july.
you conjure up images of
bleeding coke bottles,
yellow straw and ruined crops,
sitting on front porches
in loose old-fashioned florals
and waiting for birth
(both yours and the birth
of a better year to come).
i hold that vision in my mind,
but as hours slip past,
snow covers up the sleepy sepia haze
and you are born again into
a blue and white december.
forgive me for giving you a birthday present
on christmas.