The roasted scent of winter
would have surely  been inspiring
if only the shrubs of pain detached me to loneness.  
I can't remember all I am supposed to-
locked in a whirlpool of suppression
I moon my hidden and star my aches.
There will only be resting to those willing
to oppress libidos and be held in
bulimic emotional stress.

To a winter platonic affair, I shine.