Around the grey lagoon they paced,
he smug with conquest,
which had felt, to her,
more like assault than love.
This would be the pattern
until she was done.
Grey skies, grey water,
thick snow muffling the world
the way her numbness
muffled what otherwise
would have been impossible to face:
a grey, endless winter of the heart,
with spring eight long years away.
for Fireblossom Friday's prompt at Real Toads: Winter