17. Poetry is hard.

You stand with your hand on the doorknob

in nothing but your underthings,

head rested against the glass,

and I can see each breath fill you like a tremor

and stain the glass in droplets as it leaves.

I followed you when you got out of bed,

your smile dripping defiance;

and I watched you open the door,

then slip into the cold,

and although your body shook

as though to wake you,

as you walked your face remained

blank as the night’s amnesia.

You made a snow angel in our yard.

Then you came inside.

When you nestle back against me
I will be sleeping.

I will not know where snow angels come from.

I accept that this is not a good poem. But a person who sees another person go make a snow angel in nothing but underwear in the middle of the night is a story that I want to tell. This was not it, but I really, really want that story, and I don't know any way to become able to express things than to try anyway.