Like an icicle hanging from the branch of a tree, your words have stayed and lingered and bit me as they clung.
Love you. Miss you. Want you. Need you.
The base of the ice, where it anchors in my heart.
Love me. Need me. Show me. Leave me.
The dagger’s point, that clamors at my soul.
And like the icicle on the branch, there are only two ways for which your words will leave me, let me go and release me.
By slowly melting and stinging as it drips down my trunk, drops seeping to my core.
Or by breaking loose, taking pieces of me with it and leaving shards of splintered ice and birch and promises on the ground.
However the words leave, they will. And as the ice melts and breaks and washes away, so too does the essence of you.
There may be scars left behind or words splattered on the ground, but there is a spring to cleanse it away. To bud new leaves and bark and a clean place for rain to fall – and perhaps freeze again.