it’s funny how even snowflakes aren’t perfect,
and then if one slipped through the net
and made it
and is destroyed as it hits the road
or a passing car.
How a perfect landscape is covered,
lost, when the sun finds it too hard to hold its head up.
One second, a smile on your face
seems like an hour ago, when the frost of your temper
heats you up like a boiler
and my imperfect flake melts