She came to me with a misshapen tear spilling down her pale face.
I put my hand to her cheek and felt the chill of a winter wind.
I felt the holiness of the place. The loneliness of grace.
We were lost in a forest so bright, it might have been made of fire.
She told me, “This kind of thing happens all the time.”
I took her to bed, laid her across the newly-washed sheets.
She said she saw a wolf in her dreams and that I have freshly-shaven fangs.
I told her, “That couldn’t be me because I get eaten by sheep.”
The morning broke like shattered glass. Garbage trucks came for our past.
The mailman’s bag was empty. Nothing’s coming in the dawn.
She asked me, “Is it true our hearts are made of aluminum?”
I handed her a Coke can. She looked at me like I was already gone.
We slept for three days, dreaming of frozen poppy fields.
We only woke to eat dried figs and kerosene.
“I don’t believe in love,” I confessed, looking into her embers.
She was analyzing something on the wall.
There was a stray dog in a tree. A bird on a leash.
There was something creeping in the dawn.
“You have nothing to be afraid of,” she promised,
but only a fool believes such things.