Notes on Forgiveness

by Thalia Honorat

It starts with the chill

when crisp winter is biting

soul escaping in an exhale

and words are long gone

after bright fades to lunar.

In part, it’s this chill

tears cool on kitchen tiles

soul lost in a sigh

pale, hollow, deep

faded to a phantom.

Now twinge sewing heartstrings

Fate’s line less crimson,

more soft web strands

which allow the chill

to blow through but not snap.

Perhaps a lonely spider

stitches that gash together

while the mind’s far away.