It’s winter and I’m not

cloaked in night yet?

You’re taking the long way home;

passing by my 

window for a peek of 

my flickering lights,

my private worship,

my fire tongue

now burning itself to a 

cinder, cooling with the drops

of pinprick blood 

dripping down my 

altar.

And I’m preparing to

skin the ash from myself,

drape in only white,

and twirl through these 

cold months

with algid splendor.

I am seen by many

but never touched.

For you, given our 

history, that seems very

advantageous, and despite

my proclivity for sudden flight,

my growing meridian wings,

something is keeping me

here.

Something is keeping me 

floored, and despite my 

recurrent lake coffin

premonition,

something is keeping me dry,

safe on shore

and alive.

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