evaporate.

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