Skating

With frosty breath
that hung in the air
he invited me to come
skating, while his blades
cut
figure eight
infinity signs
in the ice we’d been on before.
Now I linger
pressed back against the brittle
wood fence next to where
the wreath hung
that was garnished in mistletoe.
It is here I circle
his invitation
in my own figure eight
thoughts of indecision.
I am afraid of this ice
that looks deceptively smooth.
I fear his frosty breath
that teases I won’t fall.
I will fall,
my face smashed against the hard surface,
tears welled up even before the inevitable trip.
This is something I know;
this is ice we’ve been on before.