If my feet weren’t so cold right now

I’d go out on the deck and press

a handprint into the snow —

a mark that I’d been here; her;

I’ve only ever wanted to feel

I’ve done something that mattered.


We’re all such imperfect people

and even when we, at long, long last,

find that we have everything we

ever thought we wanted, we realize

we want more.


The living-room doorway is reflected

coldly in the glass sliding door, the faint

light from the bathroom nightlight casts its

weak shadow barely into the dark.


It’s March now, but early, and I can’t

shake winter’s grip.



Enough already.

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