She said my words hold her too tight on cold nights,
preventing her little toes from freezing,
and taking away a reason for her to run away

into the apathetic blizzard.

She sleeps with her boots on,

isolating herself on icy one-way avenues
with no memory of the footprints

that led to my door step.

Even though she has the key,

she uses the ridges
to cut through my window screen.

Only then does she feel at home.

Her pain is cancerous, yet hidden

from the vision of introspection.
Seeking an answer
where love is the question

in a labyrinth without an exit.

If she would let it,

my love would heal her.

By Darryl Walker Jr

(c) Copyright 2016
Prompt: Bridge
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