Pain-is-Joy

[What the stars tossed, salt-casual, onto the not-black of the not-night suggest could be love, but I can't read them.] This is not a love poem,                        not-love, a not-love poem. Falling waist deep into February             stomping the signatures of lost years             in footprints on the pristine present-             this, not-night has become electric             with memories smashing through             the thin ice of teenage alchemy,                    charged, with the possibility of                                  heartache,                                            frostbite,             or even