Bruises

By Finn Wagner

Silence screams softest

when the begging snow cannot

crunch without some help

my steps aid us both,

at least for now. Looking back,

the path breaks our gaze

first. For the wind, cold

and convicted brings displaced

snow, each flake unique

enough to sting eyes,

dry and pleading for remorse.

Careless is the wind.

Remorse is reserved

for those fortunate enough

to live and look back.

The little ice bits

are hostile to my regrets

worn proud on my skin,

purple takes the place

of white after each burning

kiss placed on my cheek.

Time sticks to each bruise

on my body’s brittle frame.

Is this memory?

By Finn Wagner