In the silent whispers of her fatal snow I fall to stillness —
this star-strewn sky, my deathbed.

Throughout the frigid night,
the wind’s furor drinks my vital heat.

At morning’s rise, I am a net of ice,
my heart alone remains
pulsing, within the blinding white abyss of her love.

My final poem:
the furtive crevice my body’s heat has carved
in death’s own vast and ancient mouth.