Do they make love
with their words
or with their hands
(ripped,
calloused,
torn with reminders
yet soft to the touch)
bleeding beneath the sheets?
Passion or regret?
He remembers what he lost
and what he has to lose
and for whom he will not fight.
She shudders.
There's a coldness
through the sheets
and he calls it Winter
but she knows
it's someone else.
She knows,
but she knows
that she knows
that she knows
that she knows
that crying does no good.
That she will remember.
He used to call her beautiful.
That she wants to forget.
