quaintobsessions:

Sól

But I can’t tell you of that,
can I?

The wolf’s chase, the run,
the blood-

stained snow, screams stifled
to barely a breath.

*

I won’t be able to unsay
that I

missed you when you stopped
looking for

my reflection in the well, bare,
undone, eaten alive.

*

Is this when it starts
to last?

Or is it already frozen
like early blooms

gripped by cold
consuming them like fire?