indiana

by Raine Wynd

indiana was her love for me:
nut-brown and bitter cold and hoping for growth
in the someday spring that might arrive without lake-effect storms

indiana was her love for me:
in the summer it would burn with heat and scorch my skin
but still leave me with no real warmth to wrap myself in

indiana was her love for me:
and i would find myself hoping for winter again
for the fur-lined steel of her casual indifference

indiana was her love for me:
many-colored fallen leaves of half-formed dreams she'd spin
by the slowly dying fire of everything i had to give