paint it white

[lioninmaple]

the deck is a cold place
wood, slatted
trees finger the silvered moon
but cannot touch, cannot scratch

she is hard
weathered, and despite
the mock of sunflower warmth
she paints things white

avoids
really touching them
and the sky is nothing
but somewhere
to pant
in shallow gasps

she does not want
to deal
with complexities or the teeth
of emotions
that would mean grasping stems
and pain

because to love
deeply
is to prepare yourself
for the greatest pain

so, she will just paint it white
block herself
in moon-shadow
slather karma on a pretty sandwich
and whisper charms
in the hollow
of night

and I will pour myself
through those wooden slats
-deck, hard, cold -
wonder
where she buried
the whiteness
of her heart