Phosphorescent and supple, my heart waltzed into spring.
Autumn's brief love affair, misfortunate and misrepresented, turned my frail organ to stone.
Too many of these sweet winters where my heart is none but ash and my mind is all but a breath of air.
These blankets of snow melt away and leave my conscious chillingly bereft and I, the ghost, linger.

regard me always with hesitation but never with adoration;
I am a writer of fictitious truths and factual fantasies.