I don’t want you to know how much snow settled on my peaks before it even reached October

I don’t want you to know

Before the air grew bitter, and I bitter with it

I don’t want you to know

Now all that’s left are the bitters.

Tea leaves at the bottom of the cup.

Stale, stagnant.

And now I spend this eternity of breath waiting

for the exhale of warmth,

the steam that rises,

holding steadfast to the sky above where I melt.