Dove white is not warm; 

I am skulled, I am torn. 

A scorn is all that’s born 

From those paper freckles. 

 

A love that won’t falter, 

Dead weighted, a pinned alter. 

It alters: I falter 

At the sound of your lips. 

 

The flowers have died. 

The Woman in White’s clearly lied 

A mother sighed. Hearts coincide. 

And I am not warm 

 

 

“I object.”