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I lay myself out on the window sill basking in the sun's golden glow I am still and dip my hand in the sun's yellow rays hoping to catch a piece of warmth. Yet the window is ice and my heart is cold my fingers are blue and wrinkled and old. My numb digits tingle, with the urge to break free and feel more than just a chill. I press my palms up against the glass and recall a memory that occurred long in past of a man and woman sitting beside a pink cherry tree with all their time to bide. A lover's pair meet in gentle passion it seems but upon closer look one sees tears on her cheeks and could swear that the flowers on the cherry tree die and the air has turned to cold. Holding on tight she grasps his hand yet he pulls and slips through her fingers like sand: the tiny grains one can never contain he leaves her all alone. The woman is torn that is plain to see she stands frozen still under that pink cherry tree with her heart in her hands she feels it start to crack and as it breaks she turns her back. Then the flowers are gone, the wind starts to blow and as the snow falls her tears freely flow like a brook down her face until they, like her heart, finally, solidly, freeze and stop. I remember that day every last single second can't ever forget for my memory beckons. It calls my name and my broken heart and were not for ice I would fall apart. Perhaps it would be better to heat the heart that is frozen it might offer release. Yet I remain a hard sculpture of ice crystal clear and my heart remains terribly broken I fear.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2006

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