By Tia Ramos
He’s become the sound of her hair being cut, but little hairs never fall.
Circles of rainbow turn with no motion and are all too disturbed.
His eyes have become sunken and pallid and shine
like cloudy headlights in a parking lot with oil spills against a forest scene. No longer hot marbles. In her bed he is everything sharp. Because everything seems to exist only in her bed.
Winter sits on top of tree branches but most importantly in the claws of squirrels. He crouches in the snow and lets fat squirrels eat from his hands like a shrouded old lady in black. Winter sits in his hair.