You do not see me in clear precise lines.
yet we are two vectors on a grassy Euclidian plane,
running clear, knife-like in our precision.
you create a jumble of words – serifed, sans –
clackety-clack on the keyboard, overkill.
Tell me, you are the theif of light.

I know about the winter.
The shortened shadows solstice brings
the melancholy, it begins the dark.
How the branches clack, gossip through the night
scratch the bedroom window with their long fingernails saying

why why why
They whisper accusatively
you you you

Old witches, winter’s bitches, full of hate and bile
watch, see how they guilt and shame. How you buy.
I too have fallen to such spell.
You call me light You call me Heleina.
I am.
Once
I hit a nerve
so deep within.

I felt nothing.
Not even when the artery damn burst
and my early spring hear pushed and pushed
forced a spring of tulip red blood
a flare gun of danger and I was gone.
Each day I wear the scar – memento mori.

You speak to me of grief as if I did not know it well,
the lacrimosa mass by rote sung alto-Latin by the dark robed, dark-eyed child.
You speak of this and my tears fall heavy, a deluge
I save them in a mason jar.

The paradox so easy yet you fail – we, we….
I can no longer fight this fight.
I Am.
And I am Weary.
We Are. You tell me we are Not.
We are Other.
No backward lover or lover I.
If your line is dead, then hang up.
Leave me here with my refuge –
a dialtone, a duality, my last sanctuary.