snow dance sestina

I tried to find two identical flakes,
looked through the glass and only saw my breath
tracing designs and playing with the light.
A girl tells me she thinks my soul is blue,
tells me I am not lost. I have a string
around my finger until it's untied.

I have at least six nights until I'm tied
to the half-melted tip of a snowflake.
My tears will freeze along my cheeks like string
and I'll dissolve. I'll never need to breathe...
My hair my skin my eyes will all be blue.
A girl will tell me my soul looks like light.

I try but can not stare straight at the light.
I whisper to her that my soul is tied
around a tree whose bark is turning blue,
whose leaves are swept away in trembling flakes.
I whisper to her. I forget to breathe
and hanging from my palms are two frayed strings.

We are two. Then we're one, woven like string
that shades us from the penetrating light.
The air I taste is cold from her first breath.
They say she is a girl and she is tied.
She says she wishes she were a snowflake
because they're made of ice, not pink and blue.

The wind is cold. I wrap myself in blue,
a blanket knit from twelve miles of string.
She says she thinks my soul is a snowflake
then laughs until her eyes fill up with light.
We race for hours but we're always tied,
both of us gasping for our drowning breaths.

Her skin is always clouded by my breath.
Behind the clouds, I know the sky is blue.
I touch the string on my finger, untied.
It falls onto her palm, one lonely string,
twisting like a worm in the summer light,
then thin like lace, a freshly pressed snowflake.

She winds my breath into a rope, a string.
My soul is blue, is clear, is blue, is light.
We are untied, two falling matching flakes.