Evergreen for you.

I hide my depression on days like this,
because it hurts to know a portion of
it stemmed (and still stems) from you.

I wake up with the dread suffocating
my body, flannel sheets too hot;
if I could plunge into icy water, I would.

It's snowing now, an onset of dreams,
non-threatening in its descent.
But all I see is a compromise of
safety you built up in me.

We've made space for a tree,
and soon we'll guide its branches,
thinking at what angle the lights
will look the most at home.

And you won't be here,
not that I was under any illusion.

If I sit by the fire cradling a cup
of cocoa and pralines,
if I allow my body to rest
without demanding more,
will it even be enough?

Why should I lean into safety,
when you proved it can't be permanent?