i miss winter.
when the trees were as skinny as you,
their branches like the ribs under your skin
and your lips, i miss your lips and winter
where i could see the feelings you spoke
as white clouds, the ghosts of your words
you called them. because when words are spoken
out loud they have no other use and are happy
to die, floating up into the heavens of Decemember.
i read this out loud to you although you can not hear it
it's summer, but i can tell the words are well and truely dead.