...

We were naked so I wiped away your tears with my hair. If our spirits were trees we wouldn't falter so easily. Your eyes looked like tragedy when you confessed, “There is no beauty save the shadows of the clouds.” If the rain felt its descent only it would know my stagnant fear of a graceless existence, but it shows no sign. Your hands were beneath the snow until you lifted them to touch my face and let me feel the melting ice as it shrunk back from your fever, beaten. Your fingers are pensively restless, exuding desolation, and it's how I know: your faithlessness belongs to the willow's angel. I respond with silence and lay down, pulling you beside me. I kneel over you, your face a flinch away.  A darkness rests upon us while you shudder and I can't breathe, but you tell me not to worry as my sadness colored hair, drips.