The Cacographer

Why I can't apologize (Draft #2)

Back then, the clouds caught
on the mountains, leaving snow like ash
across the soundless peaks
and the air had no scent
except the imagined pines
and the no smell of cold.

You said you weren’t cold
and let the snow get caught
within your hair and the pines
like lace or like ash
without the scent
of burning woods out on the peaks.

I tried to feel the warmth of solitary peaks
and you still said you weren’t cold
in the pines that had no scent
and I wanted my hand caught
in your hand, looking like ash,
leftovers from last night’s pines.

You said your father still pines
for these lonely peaks
of his youth turned to ash
and I said no, he hated the cold
but you ignored me, preferring the caught
silence to any words I sent.

I looked at you then, trying to catch your scent,
white washed away with the pines.
I worked my eyes to your own, hoping to get caught
within, but as though I was on distant peaks
you looked vaguely to my parka, to the cold
leaving me waiting, covered in ash.

The snow floated like the ash
from this morning’s fire, thick with smoke’s scent
that, despite the flames, left us cold
and I tried not to say, among the ruining pines,
and you tried not to hear, staring at the peaks,
but you flinched, and I looked down, and the words caught.

I remember the way you almost caught yourself above the ash
of last night’s tented peaks, reeling toward a hard descent.
and how I didn’t reach for you among the pines, and left you cold.

posted by OrangeDrink @ 2:15:00 AM