pedagogic virtues
By: ShinigamiForever

There are only distinct and enunciated phrases
that we juggle around and pretend are conversations.
Once in a while you give birth to a new and breathing sentence.
We say, it's literary genius,
but you look at us and, shuddering, say, I'm alive.
And I don't know whether you mean the sentence
which has become you
or the act of living which once defined you.

I cut the slices of my shortbread intelligence thin.
That way, you can't catch me
saying something I should rather have not wanted to say,
for reget is a solemn and dwarfed thing, teetering at the edge of noncompliance.
When you are not here, all that I have
accomplished, and maybe have been dreaming of accomplishing,
is reduced to the finest crumbles
of hail in wire-mesh plated windows.

Spring is coming. I know this because when you go to sleep
you no longer breathe in slow 1-2 patterns
but instead in quick hurried puffs of air.
And you do not talk to me anymore of imprisoned tender feelings
lodged beneath your ribs. Instead you spin in your chair
and have me to understand that what wisdom I derive from you
is pure mockery.

I do not want it to be winter
in a place where my shoes can get wet
and my feet can be cold.