the burnt snowflakes

when you swerve out of the bar
to swear at me sweetly,
your breath is a puff of mist
encapsulating the tiny souls of
all the kisses you stockpiled.
it floats over the sidewalk
and into the street,
where it’s smashed
by a cab racing to
a booty call in brooklyn.

when I look back,
you are already gone,
but there is still the scent
of your drunkenness, rich and
deep like oak, floating
above your footprints
in the first snow of that winter.
your footprints lead up the sidewalk
and end mysteriously by a mailbox.
are you crouched inside,
in the fetal position of a pillbug,
laughing to yourself as you
read love letters by losers?
a few snowflakes are
burnt on their edges, like paper –
I’m sure it’s your fault,
even if I have no proof.