Words align on the edges of our scarves
fragile crystals, sharp, faceted,
coated in ice, each corner distinct,
a march of glass fragments,
broken when spoken.
Night frosts the woolen threads.
Breath freezes into blame
that can’t swallow back.
Snow crust crunches.
Scarves bunch beneath pursed lips.
Words too cold to be lost
Preserved in unforgettable permafrost.