I tread on sheets of ice like an injured wolf,
Steps of hesitation, mistrust and the first love lost.
You’d be the ideal huntsman to find me,
To fall prey to the warmth of frosted fur.
We were lonely,
Minuscule in the scale of importance,
In the heavy sounds of a constant beat.
Keep the hold tentative,
This doesn’t have to be brutal.
We’ll lead through the wild
With a grounding hand to our shoulders.
I’ll storm in sharp snaps
Of my jaw in time with the lightning –
You’ll be the physical thunder in my lungs
To rumble and follow behind.
And you will touch me when you want to.
It’ll be the chance to shed weakness,
To ghost over rocks at the dawn, in the morning.
We wake up alone, we shoot alone,
We survive to the thrum of loneliness,
Thrive onto unplayed battles in silence.
This is the best of us,
This is all we can afford to give.
I think the longing keeps me steady,
a slow churning raises my chin high,
the forest cowers in my powerful stance.
Where is the line
Buried under the snow?
Are we compromised
In giving the cold a fire,
In trusting too much?
The crack appears,
And you can’t follow,
And I can’t leave you.
This is the worst of me,
and the best of you.
The price of protection
is taunting with regret.
And no one can see
The blood on my hands
As an untamed payment.
But I see you in a mass of the fallen,
and I stand beside a hill’s crevice,
a world of white peace once spoken
ruined with stains of blood on my jaw.
You will watch me when you want to.
I am otherworldly, we know it now,
and it seems it’s a monster you love,
a monster you regard from the other side.
The ice will surely collapse with or without you,
and we will surely drown in shivers.