Questions

You asked me, once, if I could cry for you.

My answer to you, then, was clothed in ice,
such a holy secret, preserved,
bathed in salt water to make the scrapes twinge.
My words to you were paved in frost,
so many intricacies, preserved,
sprinkled and set out to dry,
patterns in the veins.

But when you turned away,
then my lies threw down their disguises.
Fake noses and harlequin masks,
hitting the soil in which memories grow.

Then I proved my own vows wrong,
as the wood floor dotted itself
by my feet.