The rink is sliced up from the many feet
That have cut across it with their blades,
Some nimble, some unsteady as a foal,
Scarring the ice in every direction.
The rain has come and gone,
Leaving behind several shallow puddles
Which we must skirt around.
My woolen scarf is wound tight around my neck,
But my gloves are worn through,
So I feel the warmth of your dry hands.
When you press your thumbs against mine
I wonder at what we have lost
Time and time again.
I feel your soft imprint on my palm, on my mind.
Never have I been so at war within myself,
starting to feel like I don’t have any answers.
We could live anywhere but here
Yet we never feel at home
Neither in the heat nor in the snow and the damaged ice.