What happens to spiders when it becomes winter?
what becomes of shattered icycles that break beneath my feet?
what is burried does not die- even under tombstones.
i have faith in it’s existence, like the steam from railroad tracks.
follow the path,
melt what has frozen within your desires,
for me.
we’re picking at the dried parts for fun and listening to church
bells and train horns.
and then theres a warm body, a belly, a bicep, a finger tip
warmer than a sun ray on sun deprived skin
and I am so deprived.
I’d rather sweat than shiver in love.
I dream of wolves and people out to get me, shattered windows and i cant remember the rest but I know you were there.
you always are,
im asleep
i am a spider in the winter- burried.