frozen to the underside of a shattered heart

like
icicles grown on
the pedals of abandoned bicycles,
the vitals of
revolutions per minute have
lost their stomach for
circles;

what was fertile’s now
knee-deep in freeze, its resentful
reflection
dripping off the trees,
and it may be
greed talking but I want back
the shirtless nights,

stargazing rites,

heat waves haunting air
like her stare turned all the
water in me
solid,
and the
poems written on
her arms wrapped
around without my knowledge,
to hold me until summer
returns
again.

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