fire and ice

ember

the hours of striking
finally a spark from a wet flint.
not good enough for a fire
just enough to see a sight of dying ember.
a fire isnt possible;
not with a wet flint, not in her own rain.


cold shoulder blades.

she teases, with the warmth of her smile.
and her back turned,
she struck out with her cold shoulder blades.
she walked on,
every pace ahead impaling me deeper.
but ill close the distance, ill walk through the blades.