Winter madness.

the guitar gently mourns
under the strain of her small
fingers that tap-dance on it
while you crawl
away from her.

you aren't too sure
of how to close in
for the final attack
and then gently retreat
after scarring her insides
while she still plasters that big happy smile
and pretends that all is fine.

and you sweat because you don't have time
to wait
or the courage to stay
and puke out those words
that you do not want to say,
and show
that you really do care.

and then the draft of cold air
gushes right in
and slaps me across my face
leaving fingerprints
in the form of goosebumps
that take over my skin.

and you, wondering
whether you should take off
your expensive, new suede jacket
to protect me.

just let it be.