air turns to fire in the cold

The air burns where I sleep;
you trudge in almost-snow.

The resetting of alarm clocks
let the wind slip
through your dreamcatcher.

And my sunset is all
the colours of your fall.

I write a poem;
you will awaken six hours
and countless miles later

in the cold
while I burn.

The ink lies between
the segments of the universe;

in the fire
while you shiver.

What is it to miss
I try I do
not know.


Artwork by Claude Monet, “Haystacks (Effect of Snow and Sun)”

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