Snow cartwheels fluidly into her eyelashes
as her cheeks fend off the incriminating flush.
There’s a slight pause as she holds her breath,
careful not to let him see her exhale.
The wind wades in a familiar scent,
one that reminds her of the beach and a cold
that hugged her ribcage adhering metal to skin,
a collar, a choking hazard.

She plays
with the ridges in her fingernails,
pushin back,
the receding current of fractured nailpolish.
She imagines it sounds like the plucking
of feathers and the sanding down of bone.

 
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