Alpenglow

Have you stowed us away in an epoch? Have you swallowed the key?
Once we had entered easily.
We reveled in our magnetic mamour and late-night alignment.
Now decidedly unsynced, all that we were has splintered and become pyrite, 
carried by the river's temporal flow.
I'm jarred and remote, pooled and spread.
The rough tempest was raw passion—pouring down and flowing through conduits of enmity and strife.
—The river rocked me till I was sick—
A reappraisal, which was craved, is all the less savory for looking long.
You love, but you despise me too, for I awoke the frigid winds of all abandonment that formerly laid frost upon your chest—layer after layer—
My volcanic plash peppers me
with fever spots—itching, inflaming.
I'm clashing in lassitude and on my knees for amity—
It's December, and I sing fountains of honey for apricity.
Subnivean heart, may I dig back down to your midsummer, and do I even want to now? 
Alpenglow arrives buoyantly, whether you do or don't
—a grateful azalea flush of faith—
a prevision of spring's sunburst on my snowy cheek.