the edge of town

the edges

of us. the sharp, the dull,
the numb
cuts
we receive and give out

are never quite fatal
but they never heal
or leave.

we swab at the blood,
the brokenness of us,
the absolute empowerment
of grief.
we become accustomed to
rain.
to hail
and wind, the onslaught
of cold,
the falling front of
unrelenting sleet.

the edges of us grow
frost.
our eyelashes, the tips
of our fingers,
our nose. our tongues
when we open our mouths
to breathe the cold in,
to groan
at the stark reality
of what is.

in the past,
we used to warm ourselves
against others.
to curl beside a loved
one as the clock moved forward,
the stars were out then,
but no more.
now we look for shelter on the edge
of this dark town.
we look for a vacancy
on the road at 3 a.m.
for a single bed to lie in
and wait it out.