Winter Collarbone

Cold spills like ink across my skin,

a sharp bite where the collarbone begins.

Morning fog curls up in white breaths,

holding tight to fragile depths.

The thin shirt cuts, a brittle lace,

skeleton traced in frozen space.

Frost sneaks in through the fabric’s crack,

a quiet chill that pulls me back.

Each exhale clouds the cold air thin,

a fragile bridge stretched on my skin.

I flinch before the frost can stay,

winter's harsh hand won't melt away.