Cold Flame

I’m coming home to be with you.
After the blizzard in a bottle
and waist-deep in black snow.
Post traumatic stress syndrome.
Much later than death expected.
 
I’ve carved your initials
in the tree of my arm.
A pin, I sleep with a needle.
We lie beside cool rivers.
Our photons are jangling
like cheap costume jewelry
during heartache’s Mardi Gras.
 
Here, sip this sweet illusion.
My beautiful outcast, drink of me.

© Copyright, 2012, Bruce McRae.
All rights reserved.