By Evette Davis
Once you were gone,
I carved your name
into the snow
a thousand times.
Flakes whitewashed it
to the mind of another,
while snow boots would
rewrite mine in its place.
Once you were gone,
I was able to pull myself out
of bed to decorate my new walls
with silver tinsel.
I locked the door,
boarded the windows,
struck the incense.
Smoke carried
peppermint dreams bunched
in cumulus cotton balls
that would tend to my wounds.
Once you were gone,
the tree in my living room thrived
in a singing shade of green
I never knew existed.
There was so much I never knew existed.
I long to add new ornaments.
I want to decorate myself from
head to toe.
I want to learn to breathe
the crisp morning air again,
and I hope you want the same.
You were every frostbitten night,
a cut-throat cold that
I much prefer my mind
and my home without.
Once you were gone,
December ended.
Post Script Magazine. 