"Last night, I threw a bucketful of the Pacific at you and
The water froze in the vacuum between us in the image of diminutive glass birds in flight.
You are God
Of Ice.
You weighed the fragile birds in your wise right palm all night long and then let them fall in the dust.
The morning Sun followed your instructions and burnt them to death.
There's a puddle in my breast and you float in it, confused.
...
You went to look at the happy sweet peas hanging in bronze in the balcony.
Morning found them dead.
Frost, she told me.
Cruel, love.
...
The baby-pink cashmere that you draped me in had a glacier on its inside.
It melted all night long.
All night long, I was cold. So cold."
- Hayat
...
You are poetry.
And since when was I so generous and inarticulate.
The water froze in the vacuum between us in the image of diminutive glass birds in flight.
You are God
Of Ice.
You weighed the fragile birds in your wise right palm all night long and then let them fall in the dust.
The morning Sun followed your instructions and burnt them to death.
There's a puddle in my breast and you float in it, confused.
...
You went to look at the happy sweet peas hanging in bronze in the balcony.
Morning found them dead.
Frost, she told me.
Cruel, love.
...
The baby-pink cashmere that you draped me in had a glacier on its inside.
It melted all night long.
All night long, I was cold. So cold."
- Hayat
...
You are poetry.
And since when was I so generous and inarticulate.
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