I hear your frozen words upon the wind
no doubt of the intent by their inflection;
like drifting snow, they sting and burn the skin
and often mid-discourse they change direction.
When did the icing of your heart begin?
No longer feel the warmth of this connection.
We rally for the masses once again
such perfect players living this deception.
The bitterness we carry is a sin;
I try, but never promised you perfection.
One biting phrase from you and it begins—
I set my stance to stave for the deflection.
Why do we keep on doing what we do…
unwilling to admit that we are through.
© Ginny Brannan