A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

I see you,
more clearly than you may ever know. I’ve stood
upon that cliff and felt the magnetism
of fear and despair calling me to annihilation. I’ve thought
perhaps I can deconstruct myself,
the way I pull apart verses looking for meaning. I’ve thought
perhaps it would be for the greater good
that I become permanently silent.

I see you.
I witness your pain—fear twisted into bitterness and hatred
not through malice, but through distorted counterfeit hope
that somehow destruction could be a purpose;
through distorted, broken love that causes damage
in pursuit of the lies it believes to be true.

I see you.
I am a child in your snow—seeking to catch your flakes
as they fall, hold onto them forever, safeguard each unique structure.
I believe, I must believe, that there is beauty here that can be
preserved and protected.
I reach for you,
but you melt in the warmth of my touch,
no matter how I try to be gentle,
and I can only weather your storm so long,
the cold becoming too much for my bare hands.
And what cruel irony this is—that I burn too bright to hold you,
and yet even as you steal my warmth,
nay, even as I would willingly sacrifice my shine
to keep even one of your crystals whole,
my warmth cannot survive your chill.

I see you,
I bask in the glow of my love and the fire we share,
and from behind the shield of molten sand made clear,
I watch your fall.
I cannot keep you.
I could not keep you.
You simply were,
and now you are gone.
Like the snow.
But I saw you.