the splinter of
ice is vanishing in her palm
hands of
magic, hands of stretched
alabaster skin,
hands with pale fingernails
that were once
painted reflection pool blue
this shard is
nothing of importance, your
scent of autumn as
cyclical as burnt
leaves, as barren as an empty table, as
pitiful as division
you contrived, the
remnants wiped away
on her soft thigh
© 9.18.2018 heather brager
