You are a cold November morning,
all empty breath and lukewarm promises.
Your stained-glass smile reminds me of empty churches.
While delineating your fractures, I feel like crying for you.
Is it selfish I only associate you with sad things:
the lone crow guarding the telephone line,
or the carcass of a cicada still in its shell?
You ought to unfurl yourself a little,
and laugh a little more honestly.