A Gentle Death

A snowflake
on midnight's breath
on moonlit waves
finds gentle death
as it slips into its own embrace
in liquid form.

In the same way,
I find a spot for you:
on top of the old scars,
but underneath the new,
and you slide perfectly into place
without a backward glance--

unless you did look back,
at the moment I glanced away.
How normal, to miss
each other in just that way.
I guess some things never change--
that, at least, was true.

Fast forward:
presenting fluent
gestures of denial,
emotions truant,
each muscle carefully arranged
in artificial joy--

sometimes lying
is the only way that I can breathe.