The goal is as far as possible.

He can feel the glacier from miles away tumbling along his footprints,

The rumble slowly blinds him as he starts feeling weaker

as the flakes lean down to shimmer through his frigid cheeks.

She didn’t have to die

I couldn’t have done anything. I thought she was okay.

You could’ve stayed.

I didn’t know.

You killed her.

I didn’t

Did I?

The footmarks were soft and fragile,

hanging lightly to tingling snow,

Now they become embedded to the blizzard,

holding onto the swirl of wind that he left behind

as he treads over the snowfield.

He knows the blood still stains on his hand,

the knife has never been on his palms,

yet the guilt roars within him

like the glacier rolling off the snowfall.

And so he goes off,

on the sleet

scampering onto the never-ending journey of disgrace

And never to return.

Just as she never did.