Better:
In the birch trees of my heart,
a desolate winter has settled.
Among the grey moon light they stand,
collectively defeated and
clicking the black and white
of their spines together
in some desperate attempt
to start a fire
that may never come again.
The birds no longer sing your name.
Spring refuses to walk my earth.
My bravery is gone, my hands old
and unforgiving.
They are looking for the tortoise shell
you once wore around your neck.
That was three harvests ago,
when they found it among the wild
flower fields of your chest
and where they once slept in reassurance.
Instead, cast from the oceans
of your arrogant face,
a stone is found.
Uneven. Warped. Discolored.
Infinitely bound by beauty,
and that which I was compelled to return to you.
It seems that in the conquests
of my appetite for your skin,
I have allowed those birches -
that were born from your love and
which kept me tethered to you -
to set themselves ablaze.
And my God, what a sight to behold!
Come, let us dance forever
in the smoke and death and sex
of what briefly existed between us.
For I've grown tired of chasing
the half-ghost idea
of what it is you wanted me to be.
An image,
drunk on the pomegranate seeds
of your mouth,
that will never again escape
the hazy boundaries of my sight.
Floating and careening.
At odds with gravity,
and the woman I will always wish to be.
