The pallors of resentments preferring the winterlike glow to
the sun's glaring light and blinding whiteness, as though
this were a place of ghosts not of snow and cold and frozen
winds, but instead of warm fires, flickering candles, and
friendly faces.

And here it is so easy to be kind and generous and
compassionate, without fear or shame of being thought
foolish or weak for doing so, knowing that this is not where
we want to be, and yet it feels good to feel at home when
there isn't much warmth to feel because home is far away

and memories are hard to hold on to in this place, like a
pair of spectacles with lenses made of ice; and so they keep
their distance from one another, each wanting only what
the other has, never sharing any kind of feeling or
understanding, except when one person smiles and gives up

his own loneliness just long enough to offer some relief;
and then suddenly it feels strange to be able to think and
speak of love and hate and kindness and revenge and all the
rest, when there is no one else around to hear you and no
one who knows what you mean; and the two of them feel

alone again, even though they have been together so long,
because they can only be alone together
when they are together at all.

David M. Alper's forthcoming poetry collection is Hush. His work appears in Invisible City, Unbound Brooklyn, Mortal Mag, and elsewhere. He teaches in New York City.