I am a seeker.

Here and now fills me.

Meanwhile a small part remains empty,

and I ache to find out what I can fit into it.

I want to be filled with life, play, laughter.

Warmth.

Now I’m an ice figure with a careful,

somehow tentatively throbbing heart.

You killed me.

Guess what?

I’m back from the dead.

I hope one day I can let that part of me heal well,

Now it’s a silent scar.

An ice-desert.

An ice rink with blade marks,

feeble attempts at ice dancing.

I fall as hard every time.

No time to reach out my hand to cushion.

Suddenly I’m lost, the wound is open and I hurt someone,

blood flows out of me,

staining the one who came too close.

Ice melts a bit where my blood drips.

Then the ice is hard again.

Some red color gets encapsulated inside the ice,

and I breathe shallow and fast and feel my chest narrow

while I know that inside that ice is potential for life.

My life.

It has always been difficult for others to stand firm around me.

I end the dance alone.

Small ice particles sparkle while hurled through the air.

I do a pirouette and wish the fall welcome.